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Praneeth Vepakomma (USA)


He could not translate my apologetic meow’ese.  He could see me frantically jump, rollick, and cavort over his bed while I screamed a word or two through my nostrils. Mostly golden brown with some orange and a tiny blotch of red; my moist nose was surrounded by whiskers that wildly shook as my ears stuck out like clumps of cookie dough.  He stared at me as if he would clench my golden whiskers, tie them up into a Borromean ring and hang me over a nail like I was objectified to be a living dartboard. It is obvious that the tip of my scrawny nose would be the bullseye. All I inadvertently did was to stroll around his house just like any other innocent pet would; albeit with a sprinkling of some unintended sequence of trigger events that resulted into an unimaginable domino effect of crazy proportions. My tiny dad…