The small human known as “Don’t Touch That” recently had a birthday. I would say I remember him fondly as a child, but I can’t. He and I haven’t been on speaking terms for years. Oh, I remember that human well. We briefly engaged in what is now known as the War of 2016.

How it started, I am uncertain. Who really remembers how these things go, but as I recall, he sat on me once when I was a kitten. I retaliated with a hair ball in his bed. It was a bold move, I admit, but I didn’t start this war, he did.

He pulled my whiskers, hid my treats, and called me “Bowser”. I scratched his shoes, hid his socks, and barfed on his coat. I’m not going to lie, those were some hard days. I spent my afternoons hiding behind chairs and curtains and under the bed. I even skipped a meal once when I spied him suspiciously lurking around the food dish.

The last straw was when he put little pieces of tape on the bottoms of my paws. He laughed and I vowed revenge. The next day, he awoke to a nice urine soaked pillow. Screams were heard and normally unspeakable things were spoken. I, of course, had to lay low after that, but yes, the war was over and I had won. No one calls me “Bowser” now.

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