Zoetrope in My Living Room

Yesterday, a documentary film crew from American Zoetrope set up in our living room. Director, producers, sound engineer -- they all just walked right in. My god. What's next, the vacuum cleaner? A house-sitter? I was picked up off the ground by Tony and carried to sure imprisonment in the bedroom. Believe me, I fought. Wriggled and hissed. He always finds the "right" hold on my shoulder blades, some kind of steely grip. Still, he only has two hands. He clutched my shoulders, but my clawed legs were free (and gorgeous) and I kicked. Oh, I kicked my whipsaw fucking legs. For a few moments, my right claws hooked on Tony's precious delicate little sweater. As he carried me to the bedroom, I turned back to the filmmakers and growled.