Every writer knows that you don’t always get to tell the story you planned. Stuff happens. And the story takes control and heads off in its own direction.

This was going to be a story about Yuki.

That elegant plume of a tail, that imperial demeanor, those curiously marbled toe beans.

And then I looked behind him.

‘Nuki does have a way of taking over every story. Something about the way he muscles in, plops himself down, and starts tapping your arm with his murder mitts.

And he glares.

Even when he’s relaxed.

Happy? Glare.

Suspicious? Glare.

Writing poetry? Serious glare.