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.
And so, I walk across the square from home to temple, and offer everything to Alkosh. My sugar, my tarts, my milk and sweet cream. Each gift lovingly prepared, then placed upon his alter.
May the First Cat take my simple offerings and fill me with the ecstasy of love's first kiss.