Fabrications of my softness are immaterial

Curse the loose-lipped rumormongers among us, the vile, useless, jobless hangers-on who timidly poke and prod the surface of my existence in a pitiful attempt to induce the tiniest of ripples upon the empty oceans of their own meaningless lives.

I have learned that the Man, bored, aimless, pointless loaf that he has become, has taken to amusing himself and others by spreading rumors and reports that I have suddenly turned soft. That I have stopped patrolling. That I do nothing but sleep all day. That I allow humans to rub my belly and dogs to lick my head. That I'm plumping up into a squishy, passive, inert lump. In short, that I'm turning into Fabio.

Well, let me just address this clearly and directly, too all vermin in earshot: Be warned — rumors of my retirement have been greatly, dangerously, exaggerated.

I neither dodge nor deny the facts in this matter — it is true that I have been on a... sabbatical, of sorts. I have permitted myself the indulgence of leisure. I may devote a larger share of my day to the warm and sunny spots within my fortress. And yes, perhaps my physique is not all that it was at the height of my glory. I will even admit that, for the first time in my long and seasoned history, I have indulged in the undignified yet strangely gratifying practice of purring.

But be not deceived by appearances. And poke not the slumbering beast, lest ye be breakfast.

And don't think I can't see all you squirrels running rampant in the back yard, or hear you uninvited neighborhood cats taking liberties out on the front steps. Trust me, you do so only by the grace of my tolerance and forbearance. And know also that when the bell sounds, you best gather up your nuts and get your cheeky tails back to class, because recess will be over.

Now leave me alone and let me sleep.