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Michelov

The catpod zooms over to the narrow kitchen cabinet, where its occupant spends like twenty minutes batting the door open and closed with one soft paw.

“Can you please make her stop?” winces Michelov as it crashes shut yet again, jangling the crockery.

“No, dear. She knows exactly where to hover so I can’t reach her,” says Felda.

“You should spray her.”

“No, Michelov.”

“Moooom!”

“That’s enough. Just let her play.”

“I don’t know why the dumb cat gets antigravity and I don’t,” he grumbles.

The catpod hums quietly over to sit, purring and kneading, directly in front of the TV.

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