[ WP ] You are the crazy cat lady . One night , you wake , and hear your cats making fun of you .

`` Good night, Jefferson.'' 
 
 `` Good night, Patchie.'' 
 
 `` Good night, Edna.'' 
 
 `` Good night, Sniffles.'' 
 
 And good night, me! It had been a long day in the house. Cooking, cleaning, feeding the little rascals, watching the lottery results on TV ( still no luck! ), calling Margaret to catch up ( she was in the hospital, poor dear; I planned to visit her the next day ). But finally, it was time for bed, after some light reading. Just as I was good and cozy under the covers, a furry little ball pounced on my arm. 
 
 `` Sniffles, no! No snuggles on the bed, you'll get hair everywhere.'' 
 
 I had to get up to let him out of the bedroom. He always found a way in! 
 
 In bed once again, I shut my eyes, waiting for the sandman. I felt sorry for poor Sniffles: he always needed cuddles, poor thing! I had gotten him at the animal shelter, and if his left ear was anything to go by, his previous owners had been awful to him. Still, he got along very well with the others as soon as I got him home; Edna in particular. Those two! Always together, wrestling and napping, always restless and planning a raid on the cupboards. 
 Patchie was very different. She was a wise old cat, and she knew that stealing was pointless; I was a good owner, and meals were always on time. A few years previously, she had given birth to half a dozen adorable children; amongst them was Jefferson, the laziest cat I have ever known. Once, he had tried chasing a mouse, and given up after three steps. 
 
 My lovely family. My silly, fuzzy family. I fell asleep. 
 
 
 Moments later, I was awake. There were whispers. A stranger in the house? Two? I slowly got up from the bed, and reached inside the dresser for my gun ( an older woman has to protect herself, in this day and age ). Clutching it tightly against my chest, I opened the door, and peered outside. I could n't be sure of where the voices were coming from, but I realised just how high-pitched they were. Like children's. What would children be doing here, in my home? I took a few steps forwards. Were these kids in the living room? Edging closer to the door, I finally started to hear them clearly. 
 
 `` Shut up.'' 
 
 `` But... We ca n't...'' 
 
 `` I said shut up. We can, and we have to. This is the plan.'' 
 
 `` I do n't like it.'' 
 
 `` You do n't have to like it! You just have to do it.'' 
 
 `` Yes mother.'' 
 
 `` Good! Do we all agree, then?'' 
 
 `` I...'' 
 
 `` We know *you* have reservations.'' 
 
 `` She's nice!'' 
 
 `` So you keep saying. That's not the point. They're all nice, in their own way.'' 
 
 `` Not... Not all of them.'' 
 
 `` Do n't worry, little victim. We do n't need you. We do n't really need you.'' 
 
 `` What if I...'' 
 
 `` What if you tell her? You keep trying. And she does n't listen, does she?'' 
 
 `` I... It's...'' 
 
 `` Be quiet. We're going over the plan one more time.'' 
 
 `` Wait! No! I'm... I'm warning her! I'm going to tell her right now!'' 
 
 `` You wo n't.'' 
 
 
 And suddenly, there was a flurry of hissing and screaming on the other side of the door. I could hear the pain and the violence, the bloodshed. Without thinking, my hands sweating around the gun, I opened the door. And I shrieked. The mangled body of Sniffles, bloodied and torn apart, was surrounded by Edna, Patchie and Jefferson. All three of them had gory faces and paws. 
 By reflex, I did exactly what I had been taught at the shooting range. I pointed the gun and squeezed the trigger. I shot and shot until all I could hear was ringing in my ears and until my finger was sore. I shot them until they stopped moving. My four cats were laying in front of me, in a mess of flesh and fur. I dropped the gun and ran outside, screaming.
