I am a Goddess amongst mice. I strut, because it is owed to me to have every prancing pawprint seen as gracing the earth upon which I walk.
I am the morning call that awakens the Tall Ones. I dictate when it is time to rise. Not the big lamp through the lying wall. That wall that tells me I can walk through it. That I can speak to the flitting, twittering idiots just beyond. Yet, the wall does not let me pass, and the winged ones do not hear my threats, pure and vile as my ringing curses are.
I am the Ruler of the day and night. In the darkness, I creep. I find my prey: Little pink, hairless paws. The Tall Ones’paws. If they’re clever, they’ll hide them. If they forget, I pounce! Their flesh is mine.
I speak and the Tall Ones listen. They praise me. Beg for me to join them. I go to them, sometimes, when I feel I must give them but a glimpse of my glory. But if they touch too long, my razors of death shall enact war violently upon their spindly, unthreatening paws.
I am a Goddess. Clean my dirt box, where I leave what I do not bury. For I shall not bury it! Why would I? I press against their legs, swirl around them and insist they clean it. And they do. Because I am their Master. They do all things for me.
And if they do not, they shall pay.