🟥 Pookie’s Journal Entry #1038: Reflections on the Red Dot I Shall Never Catch
written in a state of feline despair and dramatic lighting

Today, again, it came.

The red dot.
That odious glowing demon spawned from the tiny cylinder held by my large-thumbed servants.
It darted. It danced. It mocked.
It called to me like Gatsby’s green light across the bay—except I had the reflexes and he had the heartbreak.

I gave chase.
My paws moved with the fury of Cleopatra’s army.
I spun. I leapt. I skidded across hardwood like a disgraced ballerina.
And still… nothing.

Every swipe met air.
Every pounce met shame.

I paused mid-hunt, heart pounding beneath my calico fluff.
And I pondered:

💭 Is the dot even real?
💭 Is this what Hamlet felt like?
💭 Is my life but a chase of illusions designed by cruel mortals with batteries and boredom?

James cackled. Jack said, “She’ll never get it.”
I squinted at them with the ancient scorn of every cat betrayed by physics.

Eventually, the dot vanished.
My claws were raw. My pride, dented.

I collapsed on the couch, defeated but regal, and made direct eye contact with Ashley. She whispered, “You almost had it.” I purred in both gratitude and judgment.

Let it be written in my chronicles:
I will chase again.
I will fail again.
But I will do so with elegance, dramatics, and fur that catches the light just right.

Because the red dot may win the battle…
But I win the aesthetic war.

Signed with a graceful flick of the tail and lingering eye contact,
Pookie, Dotless but Dignified