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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.

Felda

The guy from ConVex takes one look at the holes in the lawn and whistles, low and long. “Yep, I’d say you’ve got hobbits.”

“Do we have to use poison?” asks Felda nervously. “Is there… I don’t know, one of those cruelty-free trap things?”

“Aww, traps are no good with these fellers,” chuckles the exterminator. “There is an inner strength in hobbits that will not long suffer imprisonment! No, I recommend our ultrasonic emitter, just $189.95.”

By evening they’re knocking down their round little doors in their haste to escape, yelping about quests or something. Felda keeps her cat indoors.

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