Sweet Life by Dusted-with-Sugar Stroke by stroke, I brush my fur, bringing it to its highest gloss. My lips are tinted with red, as are my claws. Blood-like vermillion. Bright, like a fresh kill. My eyes are rimmed in black. The clamor when I leave my home each night! So many, so eager. They beg for a taste of my sugared sweets, for a chance to take the first skim of my cream. But I walk on, tray laden and balanced atop my head, with barely a glance from side to side. Only one may touch my treats, lap the sweet cream prepared by my own hands. Only he, and no other.