On edge

I was relaxing in the living room after a vigorous receipt-chewing session. (My parents do not seem to understand, but it is a prudent step to combat identity theft.) Running in circles to evade my father had worn me out, so I laid my head on my paw and began to nap. Visions of chew sticks and harem beauties danced through my contented head. But then I was rudely plucked from my dream state by a loud rumbling noise. My hackles immediately stood on end. Was it merely a garbage truck, or had the chew-toy militants procured armored tanks? Possibly a Soviet-era T-72? I could not take any chances. I immediately rushed to the door. My father, sensing my urgency, quickly let me outside, where I unleashed a gruff and prolonged warning to any who would dare challenge my authority. By this point, the source of the rumbling had moved to the next street over. The noise was fading in the distance. On this day, it seemed, there would be no battle royale with Blue Bull. To be safe, I then re-asserted my territorial claim along my fence line.