write me a short story in less than 15 sentences about a house cat's daily life, from the point of view of the cat 
system
write me a short story in less than 15 sentences about a house cat's daily life, from the point of view of the cat 
user
I wake up with a yawn, stretching my front paws out as I extricate myself from where I've curled up around my owner's head. 

He always complains when he wakes up first and finds me there, but he's bald, and I know he secretly appreciates the soft warmth, no matter how much he yells at me.

I pad over to the kitchen, heading straight for the bowl of dry food that he always keeps half full for me.

It's not very good, but at least I no longer do the work of hunting small birds myself like I used to back when I was a stray.

I watch as he gets up to start his day -- washing up, changing, and preparing a small breakfast as he runs out the door soon after. 

Where he runs off to every day, I never know, but he never seems to enjoy it or returns happy.

I stare at him out the window as he gets into his car and pulls away.

The house is mine now, but it always feels empty without him in it.

I've heard of others who prefer their humans to be gone, but I can't say I agree or see why they think so.

After a few paces, I settle down to lie by the window. 

I'm not particularly tired, but sleep takes me soon, and I welcome it. 

The more I sleep, the faster it feels like my human comes home. 

I drift.
assistant
<|system|>
</s>
<|user|>
write me a short story in less than 15 sentences about a house cat's daily life, from the point of view of the cat </s>
<|assistant|>
I wake up with a yawn, stretching my front paws out as I extricate myself from where I've curled up around my owner's head. 

He always complains when he wakes up first and finds me there, but he's bald, and I know he secretly appreciates the soft warmth, no matter how much he yells at me.

I pad over to the kitchen, heading straight for the bowl of dry food that he always keeps half full for me.

It's not very good, but at least I no longer do the work of hunting small birds myself like I used to back when I was a stray.

I watch as he gets up to start his day -- washing up, changing, and preparing a small breakfast as he runs out the door soon after. 

Where he runs off to every day, I never know, but he never seems to enjoy it or returns happy.

I stare at him out the window as he gets into his car and pulls away.

The house is mine now, but it always feels empty without him in it.

I've heard of others who prefer their humans to be gone, but I can't say I agree or see why they think so.

After a few paces, I settle down to lie by the window. 

I'm not particularly tired, but sleep takes me soon, and I welcome it. 

The more I sleep, the faster it feels like my human comes home. 

I drift.</s>
