Oh, Yes, I Am

My Roommates moved out.
And left their cat. My Roommates said they would be back. I do hope they meant for their cat.
Not that My Roommates' cat requires much, to be honest. Besides a open Front Door once in awhile and my front lawn to roll all her grey fur upon; Smokie seldom even eats here.
And although The Grass is starting to yellow in spots, I do my best not to blame Smokie.
Indoors, Misty is my lovely cat. Misty is approaching five years old.
Misty was unsure that she was a cat. She would growl if someone knocked upon my Front Door. In fact, I am certain Misty really had no clue what she was.
Even after living with Lucy, for a year, back three years a go.
(Don't you mean Lucifer? The Voice is laughing at me, over my shoulder, as I type this.
And I will let you all know that I only turn to glare at The Voice, for Lucifer was indeed Lucy's real name.)
My Roommates' cat has a most lovely growl, as well. Accompanied, usually, with a tremendous hiss. The spitting variety, common to Detroit back alleys, I imagine.
Smokie likes to growl. And hiss. Because Smokie will put on this performance every time Misty crosses Smokie's path.
Even when Lucy, in fits resembling distemper, clawed Misty to bleeding, my lovely cat never hissed.
Misty hisses now.
Smokie will also spit at my little friend, Prowler.
Prowler also had no clue what she was, but there was still hope, being she has only been in-being for three months.
Prowler has clawed her way through a window screen to go roll on The Grass.
(And everybody likes to sleep on the kitchen table! The Voice dares to remind me. With glee. Say hello to my little friend! Ha, ha! Ha, ha!
Sometimes, I think I should change Smokie's name to Ashes, I tell The Voice.
Here Kitty, Kitty, I say to the air.