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He'll give you plenty of trouble.

Mr. Sugarman calls himself the boss of us, purring and kneading his way into hearts and minds. But he's not the boss of me.

He hops onto the bed at the end of a day and after an extended and mysterious absence. Casually, he beckons for obeisance by handsomely placing himself just out of reach. But he's not the boss of me.

As I try and coax him to be my love thing, he simply throws a haughty look over his furry shoulder. He is aloof to my pleading. But he's not the boss of me.

He stretches and yawns, then settles his fuzzy self into my fuzzy robe by curling into the smallest Sugarman he can be. But he's not the boss of me.

Later, I will discover that warm weather is truly upon us, evidenced by ginger blonde fluff branding my once white lounge wear.

As he deems me worthy, he is allowed to lay himself prostrate across my upper body. He sleeps deeply while I breathe shallow.

But he's not the boss of me.

For it is I whom he waits upon to pour his kittles from the big orange bag onto the green bowl. Several times a day even. Likewise, he's dependent on ME to keep that kitty box kosher. Certainly, if it weren't for me, he'd require the services of a doorman for all the ventures outdoors and back in. Then out. In. Again.

Of course, where would he be if allowed to suffer in his silence when medical attention is required. Or, something to keep the critters away.
Yes, I reckon Mr. Sugarman is deeply obliged to me.

But he's not the boss of me.


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