In a quiet house where whispers start,
Lived a white cat, sleek and smart.
A hunter of shadows, a flicker of light,
Until one fateful, tumultuous night.
A battle ensued, fierce and wild,
Our feline, though brave, was tender and mild.
With fur all ruffled, her pride shredded deep,
Home she staggered from the alley’s dim creep.
The vet was called, stitches sewn tight,
But what came next gave her quite a fright.
A cone was placed, not plain nor dull,
But one of sunflowers, bright and full.
“A sunflower?” she thought, a hiss in her throat,
“Do I look like a field where blossoms take root?
This yellow halo, wide and round,
Is surely the worst insult I’ve found!”
No longer sleek, but rather droll,
She wandered the house, a disheartened soul.
Each mirror glance, a blow to her pride,
A floral fiend, with nowhere to hide.
But oh, how her humans ooed and cooed,
“Look at our flower, how lovely, how subdued!”
Yet beneath the petals, her eyes fiercely gleamed,
Plotting revenge, a feral feline scheme.
Days turned to weeks, the cone remained,
Her dignity bruised, her patience strained.
Yet in her trial, a lesson was deeply sown,
That each season of pride, is easily overthrown.
That sunflower cone, so cheerful and bright,
A reminder that fate can take whimsical flight.
And when at last the cone was removed,
Our cat strutted away, feeling ill used!
Every cat knows, in their own haughty way,
They must endure, their human’s silly schemes.
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