🐾A Message from Sir Percival…🐾

A Turf Shed, a Tyrant, and a Tomcat’s Truth…

Message from Sir Percival:

Ah, my dear human. I see you’ve returned to the farm, tender, mended, and half-glued together with stitches and stubbornness. A lesser creature would’ve fled. But you? You came home to heal.

And what greets you? The unmistakable stench of testosterone and territorial pissing contests. Enter Bully, the bipedal bull-in-a-china-shop. One week you’re flat on your back with tubes in your arm, chasing the angels, and the next, you’re staring out your window at what appears to be a mechanical dinosaur carcass blocking your turf shed. Charming.

Now, as a cat of considerable afterlife experience, let me tell you this: there are two kinds of people in this world, those who build fires to warm others, and those who piss on the woodpile. Guess which one you’ve got.

But fear not. Energy like that burns itself out, my girl. While he’s busy marking territory and revving his ego, you’ll be sipping your tea, stoking your turf fire, and watching the sparks fly.

The only creature marking territory around here is me. And unlike Bully, I do it with style, grace, and just enough smugness to make the angels nervous.

Listen, love, people like him thrive on drama because they’ve got nothing else to do. You, on the other hand, have a turf stove, a teapot, and me. I suggest you put the kettle on, light a fire, and toast marshmallows while his prehistoric contraption sinks slowly into the bog of its own bad intentions.

I’ll be watching. Probably judging. Definitely snickering, stretched out on some celestial windowsill, betting five ghost mice that he falls arse-over-teakettle trying to start that thing.

Carry on. The turf smells sweeter when you claim it for yourself.

Sir Percival,
Patron Saint of the Black Sheep and Keeper of the Cosmic Smirk.