Elvis has fallen off the wall.

My dad greatly enjoys wall art. We spent fourteen hours on Saturday hanging up art pieces and family pictures with a rough combination of nails, picture hooks, and Command strips. One such picture was a large portrait of a tiger, and according to dad, the name of the tiger in the picture is Elvis. Okay. So we stuck four sets of special picture hanging strips to the back of Elvis’s canvas, and stuck him to the wall, holding him there for a minute just like the box said. And there he sat in his stripey glory. 

Until this morning. 

I was in the kitchen refilling my water bottle, and I saw my cat napping peacefully on the couch, right under Elvis, and I went to find my phone to take a picture to send to my dad. In the second I was looking, Elvis pulled off the wall and came crashing down, terrifying my poor cat. 

The cat jumped a foot or two straight up, and launched himself away from the noise, scrambling over the couch and endtable as fast as he could, knocking coasters and remotes in his wake. He finally paused in the middle of the kitchen, low to the ground, twitching his tail to assess this threat. Seeing nothing but me holding a water bottle, he sat up and commenced licking his ass, with all the grace and dignity afforded to the act of licking one’s own ass. 

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