by Peterson

The New Year. We were already sleeping with the cat, each on his couch, the cat by the window. The petards, of course, burn wildly right under the windows. I look, puffy, like a baby, louder than usual, he will raise his head, blink on me with his eyes, judge that I am lying quietly, I do not jump up, I do not rush to escape, and it goes back. and smart.