Volume 37

🐾 The Pookie Chronicles: Rattle of Glory

There it was. Gleaming in the moonlight that slithered under the curtain.
An empty water bottle. Plastic. Crinkled. Hollow. Powerful.

I approached like a phantom.
Silent. Judgy. Paw cocked like a sword of destiny.

Tap. Tap.
A soft clack.
A glorious crinkle.

It spoke to me. It whispered, “Make noise, queen.”
So I did.

I batted it down the hallway like a feline warrior chasing fame.
It echoed. Loud. Disruptive. Satisfying.
James called from the bathroom, “Pookie making thunder!”
Correct.

Mom said, “Not at 2 AM, Pookie.”
Incorrect.

This bottle was art.
An instrument.
A toy for gods.

I slapped it under the couch.
I retrieved it with claw-based excavation.
I dragged it to the laundry pile, where acoustics are bold and morally ambiguous.

Jack said, “She’s making beats.”
Dan said, “She’s making me want earplugs.”
The dog (we don’t have one, but spiritually, yes) would’ve said “She’s asserting dominance.”

Eventually, I stood upon it.
Triumphant. It flattened beneath my fluff with a final crunch, like the closing chapter of a sonata no one asked for.

Do I regret waking the household with plastic percussion?
No.
I am unapologetically nocturnal.
And hydrated-adjacent.

Tonight’s lesson:
Never underestimate the power of something empty.
Even hollow things hold magic.
Especially if they make noise when struck by paws shaped like royalty.

Pookie out.
Bottle secured beneath sofa.
Come at me, silence.
I dare you.