There’s a size 9 feline, snug in her zone,
In a bright orange box she proudly calls home.
Tissue for pillows, cardboard for walls,
Living her dream with zero cat calls.

She’s the queen of the couch, the duke of the trail,
Dozing so deep she could sleep through a gale.
No shoes in sight, but she’s owning that space,
Like a loaf with a tail and a whiskered face.

Forget your boots, your socks, your kicks,
This box is hers—no need for tricks.
So if you ask, “Is she fine?”
She’ll purr, “I’m a perfect size 9 feline.”