The following day, I was napping comfortably on the veranda as usual when my master, uncharacteristically, emerged from his study. He stopped behind me, working at something. Perking up and wondering what he was up to, I cracked my eyes just enough to look. He seemed to be channeling, with due intensity, his inner Andrea del Sarto. I couldn't but snicker at the sight. Egged on by his comrade, his first move was to come out here and sketch me. I'd had my fill of napping. What I wanted now was to yawn. My master, however, was fervently working his brush, and it woud be a shame if I moved, so I held still. He'd finished his outline and was coloring the face. I'll admit it - when it comes to cats, I'm not the finest specimen. Whether stature, coat, or facial features, I don't deem myself a standout. However ungainly I may be, though, I couldn't help sensing injustice in my master's peculiar sketch. For starters, the color was off. Typical of a Persian, my hide is a mix of yellow in light gray with black splashes. No one who's seen me would refute this. Nevertheless, the color my master wielded was neither yellow, nor black, nor gray, nor even brown. Nor was it any combination of these colors. It was some sort of color defying description. Oddly too, there were no eyes. Given that I'd been sketched while sleeping, this wasn't entirely unreasonable. On the other hand, there was no indication whatsoever that I even had eyes. I looked as much a sightless cat as a sleeping one. This, I thought to myself, however in fitting with Andrea del Sarto, was unacceptable. At the same time, I had to admire the passion of the effort. I thought to stay still for as long as I could, but for some time now nature had been calling. My whole body tingled. I dared not delay any further. Having no other recourse, I broke rank, indulgently stretching my front feet forward. My head followed my feet, grazing the floor and then rising into a full-fledged yawn. From this point, I made no further pretense of holding my pose. Having already upset the master's plan, I softly crept away, heading out back to do my business. "You worthless scoundrel!" A yell erupted from the parlor, in a voice that rang with both anger and disappointment. Worthless scoundrel was my master's go-to term when it came to cursing. I can accept that he knows of no other way to curse, but to call one out so rashly, and with disregard for one's efforts, is in my mind poor form. If he were even the least bit accommodating at other times, welcoming me, for example, when I napped on his back, I could suffer such denigration. But to never show me favor, and to curse me then for answering nature's call, was downright atrocious. Human beings, fundamentally, are arrogant things, intoxicated by their own power. It will require some greater being, taking them to task and but good, to finally check their arrogance.