Someone’s sleeping in my bed,
I found him there, all nicely spread.
I sniffed his ears. I checked his head.
Yep. Someone’s sleeping in my bed.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t care.
He acts like he belongs in there.
I’ve checked the rules. I’ve checked again—.
This bed is mine. So who let him in?
This is the face of a devious little shit who knows exactly what they are doing. The sort of cat that will watch you painstakingly assemble a complete spaghetti dinner and seize the opportunity in a moment of distraction to give your bread slice an extra kneading and leave a trail of buttery paw-prints down the length of the table.