Oscar stands on the landing for a few seconds, staring at the blue wall, his breathing heavy with a hint of drool. His four squat legs threaten to buckle under his barrel torso. Climbing the stairs is gruelling these days. Oscar’s natural state is one of exhausted confusion, but he accepts his lot with a heavy brow.
Finally, he ambles into the bedroom and sits. He watches the tiny human swat at the cat and marvels that such casual violence is so easily matched by the cat’s nonchalant disdain for all of humanity, and he curses his own ineluctable loyalty.
Just Punch The Clock 