THE NAPKIN
Dear visitor, I am the cat who only ate the napkin. I want you to know I did not eat the rest of dinner. I was not offered rest of dinner. I was offered a napkin, folded into a small swan, and I ate its neck and then its wings.
Five stars for the napkin. Zero stars for the sofa, which is still eating the remote, and which I am reviewing as a restaurant because it has never once been closed.
THE BUS FLIES. THE CAT FIXES IT.
I am the chief mechanic. I have a spanner the size of a cat and I keep the bus in the air by listening to its engine purr at the correct pitch. When the purr goes flat, the bus sinks a little toward the cellar. I climb under the seats and put my paw on the gear. Then I sleep.
Seats: Occupied By Nobody Who Is AwakeTHE THEATRE
Rule of this dream: every yawn starts before the last one has finished. A yawn is therefore never over, and this one has been going on since the first ever yawn, which I believe is still going.
The audience is asleep. The audience is always asleep. Please do not wake the audience. It is the only thing the audience has ever asked of the cat.
THE SOFA IS SWALLOWING THE REMOTE
The remote is 0 percent inside the sofa. It has been 0 percent for as long as the cat can remember, which is a long time for a cat who only eats napkins.
Dinner was served at the table. The table was a cardboard box. The cat was at the table.
FED
The stamp says what it says. It presses itself once a minute, because the cat asked it to. Nobody else was in the room at the time.