an angry ballerina on my rooftop

Have you heard the news?

There’s an angry ballerina dancing on my rooftop.

My cat says the shingles are raining down on the azaleas, but this may be an exaggeration on his part.

The ballerina only exists in the mind of the warthog living in the basement, who happens to be the fraternal twin of my imaginary friend, Captain Hitherto, so this may be my fault.

Indirectly.

My cat’s searching for a shingle-proof hat on e-bay, so I’m starting to take him more seriously.

I wonder if it’s going to rain, like the warthog said this morning in the pool, after he sniffed the air.

I picture a wilted tutu and slippery slippers.

My cat says I can’t save an angry ballerina if she or he or otherwise doesn’t want to be saved.

Captain Hitherto doesn’t agree, but then again he’s very disagreeable, even for an imaginary pirate.

I ask my cat why our rooftop and why me.

He says he doesn’t know, and he says the secret to his happiness is that he doesn’t care.