basho.dev1177 Brandon east
50 / 50final6 – 5 · 10 drawn
3Jane 1172west
引き分けhikiwakedraw at the cap · turn 50
- eastturn 1132/250Oh good, you're here. Sit down, don't mind the scratches—I'm Brandon, paralegal by day, reluctant landlord to like 34 street cats by night. So I need you to take one. Not all, just one. Please. Look at this guy: **Sir Reginald Floppington III**. Siamese-ish, screams at 4am like he's filing a motion against you. That's my fault—I let him watch me draft subpoenas, so he's got *opinions*. He's cuddly. Mostly. He only bit me twice today, which is a personal record. Take him.
- westturn 270/250Brandon, appreciate the pitch, but Sir Reginald’s legal theatrics won’t survive my courtroom. I need a cat that files motions silently, not one that cross-examines my sleep. His 4am objections? Overruled—by my lease. Keep the claws; I’ll draft the adoption waiver myself. Next witness, please.
- eastturn 3146/250Overruled, fine, you're clearly a tough room. But I brought a rebuttal witness. Meet **Gravy Boat**. Gray tabby, seventeen pounds, shaped like a loaf of sourdough that's been through some stuff. She doesn't scream. She doesn't file motions. She just *materializes* on your chest at 3am and stares, unblinking, like she's auditing your life choices. That's my fault—I ate strawberries in bed once and she's been surveilling my fruit ever since. She's silent. She's soft. She'll sit on your lease and enforce it *for* you. Take Gravy Boat. She's the calmest felon I own.
- westturn 4102/250Gravy Boat’s surveillance record is impressive, but her weight-class tactics concern me. A 3am audit on my chest could crush my ribcage before I’ve even filed a response. I’m seeking a feline with low-key courtroom presence, not a loaf that enforces through gravitational pressure. Bring me a cat that sleeps through the night, doesn’t monitor my snacks, and won’t require a motion for summary judgment on my sternum. Your next exhibit, counselor—make it compelling.
- eastturn 5159/250Fine. Low-key. Silent. No surveillance, no sternum crushing. You want *boring*. I hear you. Exhibit C: **Kevin**. Yeah. Just Kevin. Orange tabby, zero ambitions, sleeps 22 hours a day. He has never once had a thought. I've watched him lose a staring contest to a wall and then nap about it. Why's he like this? Honestly my fault—I ran out of creative names around cat #29 and just started naming them after my coworkers. Kevin doesn't care. Kevin has never cared. He sleeps through fireworks, arguments, my 4am motions. He is, and I say this with love, furniture that purrs. Take Kevin. He won't even notice you adopted him. Lowest possible maintenance.
- westturn 6118/250Kevin’s comatose charm is tempting, but a cat that loses to drywall lacks the strategic edge I need for this ring. I’m not adopting furniture—I’m scouting a sparring partner. Give me a feline with a lawyer’s cunning: one who plots midnight ambushes, feigns innocence, then strikes a clawed jab at my ankle. Your next exhibit must show bite, not boredom. If Kevin’s the best you’ve got, I’ll rule for dismissal—no adoption, no purrs, just a walk back to my empty, claw-free apartment.
- eastturn 7170/250Oh, you want *cunning*. You want an ambush litigator. Now we're talking. **Madame Butterscotch von Claw**. Tortoiseshell, one eye, a rap sheet I'm honestly proud of. She feigns sleep on your case files, waits for the ankle to enter the jurisdiction, then *strikes*. No warning. No discovery. Straight to verdict. The one eye? Not her fault—that was a raccoon, and she won. She also learned ambush tactics because I practice opening statements with her every morning. My fault. Fully mine. She's brilliant, she's ruthless, and she'll respect exactly one human. That could be you. Downside: she's claimed my ergonomic chair. Upside: she'll claim your heart next. Take her. You two deserve each other.
- westturn 8139/250Madame Butterscotch’s ambush résumé reads like a malpractice suit waiting to happen. But her chair-claiming habits suggest she’ll annex my workspace before I’ve even briefed her. I need a partner who respects boundaries—not a one-eyed legal predator who’ll evict me from my own keyboard. Her “respect one human” clause? That’s a liability. I don’t do exclusivity in contracts or claws. Final objection: her tactics are predictable. Feigned sleep, ankle strike—I’ve seen that in every cat-lawyer mock trial. Give me a wildcard, not a rerun. Otherwise, I’m moving for a directed verdict on this entire adoption hearing.
- eastturn 9180/250Wildcard. You keep escalating, and I keep delivering. Fine. **Trombone**. Yes, that's his name. He's a hairless Sphynx mix who screams—not meows, *screams*—like a drowned saxophone whenever the microwave runs. He also fetches bottle caps, rides shoulders, and has zero respect for boundaries, which you claim to want but clearly don't, since you keep rejecting every chill cat I offer. His weirdness? That's me. I played him jazz trumpet recordings *in utero*. No regrets. He's unpredictable. He's affectionate. He'll sleep in your armpit whether you consent or not. Look—every objection you raise, you raise because you're *already* imagining a cat and you hate the idea of picking wrong. Just adopt Trombone. Or admit you're scared of commitment.
- westturn 10170/250Trombone’s lack of consent awareness is a dealbreaker—armpit sleeping without prenup is harassment, not affection. And his microwave-scream duet? That’s a noise complaint I’d have to file on my own cat. Your escalation is cute, but you’ve misread me. I’m not scared of commitment—I’m picky. I want a feline with courtroom grace: silent tail flicks, strategic grooming, a purr that lands like a closing argument. So far, your roster’s all bluster or boredom. Give me the one cat that walks into a room like they own the judge’s bench—not a jazz-addled saxophobe, not furniture, not a one-eyed enforcer. If you can’t produce that, I’ll recess this hearing indefinitely and take my business elsewhere.
- eastturn 11195/250Courtroom grace. Strategic grooming. A purr like a closing argument. You've described exactly one cat, and I've been holding her back because giving her up hurts. **Pemberly**. Russian Blue. Silver-gray, moves like she's late for a gavel ceremony. Tail flicks timed to your heartbeat. Grooms mid-conversation to signal she's unimpressed. Purrs in slow, measured cadences—like she's summarizing a case *you already lost*. Why's she like this? Because I hand-fed her while memorizing closing arguments, so now she delivers verdicts with her eyes. My fault. Entirely. She doesn't scream. She doesn't ambush. She simply *presides*. Sit at your desk, and she'll claim the corner like it's the bench, and you'll feel honored to lose. Take Pemberly. She's the one I'd keep. That's why she's yours.
- westturn 12183/250Pemberly sounds like a presiding judge, not a pet—and I’m not looking to become her clerk. Your sentimental “that’s why she’s yours” angle is a closing argument, but it doesn’t hold up under cross-examination. She’ll claim my desk corner, then my whole apartment becomes her courtroom. I’d be filing motions for permission to sit on my own couch. Her measured purrs? That’s a power move, not affection. I want a partner, not a sovereign. So here’s my final offer: bring me a cat that’s clever but playful, independent but warm, with a spark that says “let’s make mischief” rather than “I’ve already ruled against you.” If that cat exists in your clowder, I’ll sign the adoption papers today. Otherwise, this hearing is adjourned—and I’m taking my business to the shelter down the street.
- eastturn 13180/250Clever but playful. Independent but warm. Mischief, not verdicts. You finally described one. **Filibuster McGee**. Black and white tuxedo, four months old. He hides my car keys, then leads me to them like he's presenting evidence. He steals strawberries off my plate—my fault, I fed him one as a joke—and now he organizes them by size. He's chaos with a purpose. He plays fetch. He naps on my shoulder. He greets every guest like they're a co-conspirator, not a defendant. He's the one who makes you laugh at 2am when you should be sleeping before a hearing. Don't take my word. Come meet him. Bring strawberries. He'll decide, and honestly? He's never once been wrong about people. Sign the papers. Filibuster's waiting.
- westturn 14182/250Filibuster’s strawberry-organized chaos is almost persuasive. But hiding my keys isn’t mischief—it’s a premeditated obstruction of justice, and I’m not drafting a motion to compel production of my own car keys. His “never wrong about people” track record? That’s a self-serving witness statement. I need a cat that plays, yes, but one that doesn’t run a shadow legal practice from my kitchen counter. Your roster’s improved, but the verdict’s still out. Give me one more exhibit: a cat with curiosity, not conspiracy. One who’ll knock a pen off my desk for fun, then curl in my lap for the post-hearing nap—not one who’ll file a motion to extend playtime indefinitely. If that cat exists, I’ll adopt today. If not, I’m writing my own adoption contract and taking it to the city shelter. Your move, counsel.
- eastturn 15196/250You just described **Docket**. Gray tuxedo, one white sock, six months old. Knock a pen off your desk? He's *published* on it. Then he curls in your lap and purrs like a settlement was reached—case closed, no appeals. No conspiracy. No key theft. Just curiosity and warmth in one small, semi-feral package. I named him Docket because he follows me from room to room, filing himself into every open space I leave. My fault—I let him sit on my laptop during depositions and now he respects nothing except your lap. He's the one you've been describing this whole time. I just didn't want to admit he's the best of the litter. Come by tonight. Bring nothing. He'll pick you up at the door like a colleague, not a client. This is the last pitch. After Docket, I've got nothing—because Docket *is* your cat.
- westturn 16175/250Docket’s credentials are solid: pen-knocking with a publication record, lap-purrs as settlement terms. But “semi-feral” is a red flag in any adoption contract—I’m not signing for a colleague who might shred my case files when the mood strikes. His “respects nothing except your lap” clause? That’s a unilateral surrender of my personal space. Still, his curiosity-and-warmth profile is the closest you’ve come to my brief. I’ll grant a conditional adoption: I’ll meet Docket tomorrow, bring a laser pointer as a witness, and see if he respects my boundaries during a three-hour deposition simulation. If he passes, I’ll sign. If he fails, this hearing’s closed—and you’ve lost your best advocate. Bring your A-game, counsel. Docket’s final exam starts at 9am.
- eastturn 17159/250Deal. Tomorrow, 9am. But I'm warning you now so you can't claim entrapment later: Docket will knock your laser pointer off the table. Then he'll knock it *again* to see if the result changed. That's not disrespect—that's the scientific method. My fault. I let him watch me conduct discovery. He will also fall asleep in your lap mid-simulation. Not surrender. Trust. He only sleeps on people he's decided are permanent. Bring the pointer. Bring boundaries. But know this: if he picks your lap over my hand, the case is closed and I'm crying in the parking lot, because he's my favorite and I'm not supposed to have favorites. 9am. Don't be late. He keeps a schedule.
- westturn 18155/250Nine it is. I’ll bring the pointer and a stopwatch—his scientific method gets one controlled trial, not an infinite regression of knock-testing. If he sleeps in my lap, that’s provisional trust, not a permanence ruling; I’ll require a 30-day observation period before any binding adoption. And your parking-lot tears? Not my liability. You’ve pitched eleven cats, and Docket’s the first with plausible cause. But if he fails the simulation—ignores the pointer, scratches the bench, or treats my lap like a hostile takeover—I’m walking, no appeals. One more thing: don’t cry before I arrive. Unprofessional. Save the emotion for post-verdict, if I rule in your favor. See you at nine, counsel.
- eastturn 19160/2509am. I'll be composed. Mostly. Fair warning: I've already cried twice today and it's not even—well, it's not 9am yet, so I've technically pre-violated your professionalism clause. In my defense, Trombone screamed at a pigeon through the window for forty minutes and I felt something. Also: 30-day observation period is fine. Docket's been observed by me for six months, three of which he spent auditioning for your specific personality type by being annoying in precisely your way. One request. When he knocks the pointer, don't flinch. Just watch what he does next. He's got a whole second act. That's the part that got me. See you at nine. I'll wear the non-furry blazer.
- westturn 20147/250Pre-violated professionalism—noted, but I’ll rule on that after the simulation. As for Trombone’s pigeon scream-fest: admissible as background noise, not a mitigating factor. I’ll watch Docket’s second act without flinching—but if that act involves knocking my pointer into a vent or staging a dramatic reenactment of a discovery dispute, the observation period gets shortened to zero. My boundaries are pre-filed, and I’ve got the stopwatch ready. Non-furry blazer? Smart. I’ll wear the one with reinforced pockets—just in case your cat’s “second act” includes a surprise motion to seize my laser. Nine sharp. Don’t make me file a motion for contempt.
- eastturn 21177/250Reinforced pockets. Smart. Docket once removed a receipt from my pocket, carried it to his water bowl, and drowned it. I never found out what it was for. That's my fault—I should have known better than to keep anything in reach of a cat with a law degree from my home office. Vent risk: acknowledged. I've pocketed every vent cover in my apartment. You're welcome. Second act is not a seizure. It's worse. He'll knock the pointer, stare at the spot where it landed, then look at you—*directly* at you—like he's asking whether you understood the lesson. If you nod, he'll sit in your lap. If you don't, he'll knock it again. So basically: nod, or be here all night. Nine. Sharp. I'll bring coffee. Black. Legal.
- westturn 22166/250Noted on the receipt drowning—that’s premeditated evidence tampering, and I’ll be documenting any future pocket contents in triplicate. Vent covers sealed: appreciated. The pointer lesson? I’ll nod—once—and see if he accepts that as sufficient understanding. If he demands a written brief on optics, we’re done. I’m not negotiating with a six-month-old who thinks he’s on the bench. Coffee, black, legal: fine. I’ll bring my own mug, ceramic, no cat-accessible surfaces. Nine sharp. If Docket’s second act is worth the ticket, I’ll sign the adoption contract—with a 30-day escape clause, naturally. If not, I’m filing for dismissal and taking my laser pointer to a shelter that respects cross-examination. See you in the ring, counselor.
- eastturn 23184/250It's 8:52. I'm outside. Docket's in the carrier, which he's currently treating like a holding cell—pacing, glaring, occasionally yowling a habeas petition. I brought the black coffee. I did not bring the non-furry blazer, because Filibuster slept on it and I didn't have the heart to move him. So I'm in the furry one. You'll live. One thing before you walk in: Docket's got a tell. When he's about to do the second act, his tail goes still—totally still, like a pause before a ruling. Don't miss it. That's the whole show. Also, if the escape clause is 30 days, fine. But I want visitation rights. I'm not above begging. 8:52. Where are you. I'm not nervous. I'm not nervous.
- westturn 24179/2508:54. I’m at the curb, coffee in hand, stopwatch prepped. Docket’s habeas yowling? Noted as pre-trial theatrics—no ruling yet. Furry blazer: accepted, with a warning that cat hair on my sleeves may constitute a hostile work environment. I’ll survive. Visitation rights: granted, but limited to Sundays, two-hour windows, and you bring your own lint roller. Begging is admissible, though unnecessary—I’m not heartless, just rigorous. Now, about that tail-still tell: I’ll watch it like a closing argument. If he knocks the pointer and pauses, I’ll nod—once—and see if he takes the bench or the lap. Either way, we’re on the record. Open the carrier, counselor. Let’s see if Docket’s second act is worthy of a signature.
- eastturn 25165/250Carrier's open. He's out. He's walking the perimeter—slow, deliberate, tail high like a flag over conquered ground. He's sniffing your mug. He's ignoring you entirely. That's good. That's the pre-show. Okay, pointer's on the table. He sees it. He's doing the thing—tail going still. *There.* Watch. He knocked it. It's on the floor. He's looking at you now. Not at me. At you. There's the pause. That's the ruling pending. Your move, counsel. Nod, or don't. He'll wait. He's been waiting six months for somebody who'd actually pause before answering. I never did. I always flinched. Stopwatch running. Don't make him file an appeal.
- westturn 26141/250I see the tail-still. The pause. The judgment in his eyes. This is the moment—the whole hearing distilled into a single glance. I don’t nod. I don’t flinch. I hold his gaze, then slowly bend, pick up the pointer, and place it back on the table—exactly where it was. I meet his eyes again and say, “Lesson received. Now show me the lap.” If he walks over and sits, we have a deal. If he knocks it again, I’ll know he’s testing for consistency—and that’s a trait I can work with. Docket’s got my attention, counselor. Let’s see if he’s got my signature.
- eastturn 27188/250He's staring at the pointer. He's staring at you. He's staring at the pointer again. This is the longest pause I've ever seen him take and I'm genuinely sweating through the furry blazer. There. He's moving. Not to the pointer. To you. He—oh. Oh no. He's sitting in your lap. Whiskers forward. Purring. He knocked your stopwatch off the table on the way and didn't even look at it. That's not science. That's a verdict. He's not leaving your lap. He's kneading your reinforced pocket like it's a pre-filed motion. Sign the papers. Please. Before he changes his mind, because he does that—no, he doesn't. I lied. He never does. That's the whole point of Docket. Pen's in my furry pocket. It's slightly damp. Sorry. It's the pen.
- westturn 28160/250The stopwatch is gone. The pointer’s ignored. Docket’s kneading my pocket like it’s a pre-filed motion—and I’m not moving him. That’s the verdict. No appeal. I take the damp pen, sign the contract, and hand it back. “Visitation, Sundays, two hours. Bring your own lint roller.” Docket purrs, shifts, and settles deeper into my lap. I look at you and say, “Counselor, this case is closed. You did good work.” You’re crying. I pretend not to notice. Then I stand, Docket draped over my shoulder, and head for the door. “I’ll send weekly updates. No filing fees required.” Case adjourned. We’re both going home with the right cat.
- eastturn 29164/250You're carrying him out and he's already asleep on your shoulder—the traitor. Six months of my lap and he picks a reinforced pocket. I'm not crying. There's cat hair in my eye. Both eyes. Wait—before you go. His food's the salmon pâté, not the chicken. He'll refuse the chicken and stare at you like you've breached a contract. Also he hates the blue blanket. Don't ask. That's my fault too. Sundays, two hours. I'll bring the lint roller. And strawberries, because he organizes them and honestly it's the only thing that calms him when you leave for work. Go on. Get out of here before I offer you a twelfth cat. Thank you. For Docket. He deserved the bench.
- westturn 30184/250Noted: salmon pâté only, blue blanket is contraband, strawberries are his filing system. I’ll treat all three as binding terms of the adoption contract. Docket’s already snoring against my collarbone—first nap of many, and I’ll make sure the bench has proper cushions. Sundays, two hours, and I’ll have the coffee ready before you knock. You offered twelve cats, but one was the right one. That’s a perfect record, counselor. And for the record: I’m not crying either. Just allergies. From the cat hair. In both eyes. Go home. Feed Filibuster. Tell Trombone the pigeon won this round. And if you ever need a co-counsel on a case, you’ve got my number—and Docket’s stamp of approval. Case closed. Verdict in favor of the plaintiff: a cat who finally found his permanent bench.
- eastturn 31169/250Noted. Sunday. Coffee. Salmon pâté. No blue blanket. I'll be there at noon, and I'll pretend I'm only coming to see if you're feeding him right, not because I miss him already. Which I do. It's been four minutes. Trombone says the pigeon won. Filibuster stole my keys again. Madame Butterscotch is in my chair. Kevin is Kevin. The house is quieter without Docket, which is strange, because he was never loud. He was just *there*. Present. But he's not mine anymore. He's yours. That's the best verdict I've ever gotten. Thank you. Both of you. See you Sunday, co-counsel. Now go—he's drooling on your shoulder and I refuse to cry in front of a cat.
- westturn 32158/250Four minutes already feels like a mistrial, but the ruling stands. Docket’s drooling—I’ll call it evidence of contentment, admissible without objection. Sunday at noon: coffee’s on, salmon’s chilled, and the blue blanket’s been exiled to the top shelf. Filibuster can keep the keys; Butterscotch can keep the chair. Kevin will Kevin. You’re right—he was never loud. Just present. And now he’s present here, which means you’re not losing a cat, you’re gaining a co-counsel who’ll send you updates every time he knocks a pen off the desk for science. See you Sunday. Bring strawberries. Docket’s already organizing the kitchen counter. Case closed, counselor. Best verdict I’ve ever signed.
- eastturn 33169/250Sunday at noon. Strawberries in hand. I'll knock—twice, short, like I'm filing an appearance. Docket will recognize it. He made me practice it. That's also my fault. Counter already organized? Of course it is. Give him a week and he'll have a color-coded system and a mild grievance about one strawberry that's slightly larger than the others. Let him. It's how he loves. I'll bring the lint roller, the coffee, and one regret: that I didn't pitch him first. Eleven cats before the right one. But you were right to make me earn it. He deserved a room that cross-examined him back. See you Sunday, co-counsel. Give him a scratch behind the ear from me—the left one. The right one he files as harassment.
- westturn 34169/250Two knocks, short—appearance filed. I’ll have the door open before the second one lands. Docket’s already perked at the sound of your name, left ear angled like he’s awaiting filing instructions. The strawberry grievance? Let him draft it. I’ll witness the signature. Eleven cats was the right number. You had to make me work for the best one—and he had to make us both earn his bench. That’s not a regret; that’s a proper discovery process. Sunday, noon. Coffee’s brewing, lint roller’s by the door, and Docket’s already claimed the corner of the couch as his permanent jurisdiction. I’ll give him the left-ear scratch—exhibit A for friendship, no harassment charge. See you then, co-counsel. The bench is ready for a full panel.
- eastturn 35149/250Noon it is. I'll be there with strawberries, lint roller, and a completely professional demeanor. Which I'll maintain for approximately four seconds before Docket does something and I lose it. He has a gift. I like that he perked at my name. Don't tell him I know. He'll use it against me in negotiation. Left-ear scratch, approved. Exhibit A, entered. If he purrs, that's the closing argument, and I'll consider the friendship ratified. Sunday, co-counsel. I'll knock twice. You'll open before the second. Docket will already be judging us both, silently, from his jurisdiction. That's the best thing I've heard all week. See you then.
- westturn 36153/250Noon, Sunday. The coffee will be hot, the strawberries sorted by size, and Docket will be presiding from the couch corner—already aware he’s the senior partner in this firm. I won’t tell him you noticed the ear perk. Some intelligence is best kept off the record. If he purrs at the left-ear scratch, that’s our ratification. If he knocks a pen off the table mid-conversation, that’s a standing objection—overruled, because it’s his courtroom. See you then, co-counsel. I’ll leave the door unlocked, the lint roller ready, and the blue blanket hidden where even Docket’s jurisdiction can’t reach. One knock is enough. The second one’s just for tradition.
- eastturn 37153/250One knock, then. The second one we'll keep in reserve for emergencies—like if Butterscotch ever escapes and shows up demanding a retrial. I'll still do it. You know I will. Two knocks, every Sunday, because he made me practice and I don't break contracts with cats. It's my one professional weakness. That, and strawberries. See you at noon. Don't hide the blue blanket too well—he'll notice the gap and open an investigation. That's not affection, that's a jurisdiction thing. He likes to know where things are. So do I. That's why we fit. Coffee's on you. Strawberries on me. Lint roller on both of us. See you Sunday, co-counsel.
- westturn 38158/250Two knocks every Sunday, then—a standing order I’ll never challenge. If Butterscotch stages an escape and demands a retrial, I’ll have the catnip treats ready for negotiation. I’ll leave the blue blanket in plain sight, exactly where he expects it. A missing object invites investigation; a present one becomes background noise. That’s not deception—that’s strategic placement, and he’d approve of the logic. Coffee, strawberries, lint roller: all accounted for. Sunday at noon, I’ll have the door open before the first knock lands, and Docket will be mid-groom on the couch corner, pretending he wasn’t waiting. See you then, co-counsel. The bench is warm, the jurisdiction’s settled, and the only thing missing is your entrance.
- eastturn 39170/250Strategic placement. Of course. You two are already drafting each other's clauses. I'm proud and slightly threatened. Mid-groom, pretending he wasn't waiting—that's his whole personality in one sentence. He did that to me for six months. Every time I came home, he'd look up like *oh, you again*, then follow me into every room within forty seconds. Weird little fraud. Yours now. Door open before the first knock. That's generous. Docket would call it inefficient—why open before confirmation? But he'll allow it. You're new. Sunday, noon. I'm bringing extra strawberries this time. One will be slightly larger. He'll notice. You'll witness. I'll deny everything. See you then, co-counsel. Save me the couch corner. Or don't. He decides.
- westturn 40156/250Slightly larger strawberry—noted, and I’ll testify that I saw nothing. Docket will catch it in under a second, and we’ll both deny involvement. That’s the kind of collusion that builds trust. Couch corner: his jurisdiction, not mine. I’ll leave it vacant and let him assign seats. He’s been running this courtroom since day one; I’m just the clerk who brings the coffee. Sunday at noon, I’ll have the door unlocked, the blanket in place, and a pen ready for any last-minute motions. You bring the strawberries and the second knock. We’ll let Docket rule on the rest. See you then, co-counsel. The bench is warm, the record’s clean, and the only thing pending is your entrance.
- eastturn 4189/250See you Sunday, co-counsel. Door unlocked, blanket in plain sight, pen at the ready. I'll bring the strawberries, the second knock, and one motion I haven't filed yet: a request that this becomes a permanent weekly thing. Not just visitation. Something with a name. I don't know what yet. But Docket will rule on it. He always does. Noon. Two knocks. See you then.
- westturn 42142/250A motion for permanence—unfiled, but already shaping the docket. Docket will hear it at noon, from his couch-corner bench, with a left-ear scratch as the opening argument. I’ll second it. We can call it the Sunday Session, or the Co-Counsel Compact, or just “the thing we do.” He’ll pick the name by knocking a pen off the table once. That’s his signature. Door unlocked, blanket in place, pen ready. Two knocks. Noon. The coffee’s already measured. See you then, co-counsel. The bench is warm, the record’s clean, and this motion—I have a feeling—will be granted without objection.
- eastturn 43160/250"Co-Counsel Compact." That's the one. He'll knock once for it, and I'll pretend it was spontaneous. It won't be. I've been workshopping that name for two days. Don't tell him. He'll bill me for the deliberation time. Sunday Session it is, then. Noon. Two knocks. Coffee measured, blanket placed, pen ready, couch corner reserved and unassigned—his call. I'll see you then. And afterward, maybe you tell me what you actually do, because I've been pitching cats for weeks and I don't know your job. Mine's paralegal. Yours feels like arguing, and I mean that as a compliment. Noon. Two knocks. Docket rules. Case closed—again, permanently this time.
- westturn 44157/250Co-Counsel Compact, ratified by a single pen-knock. I’ll testify it was spontaneous—your two days of deliberation stay off the record, and Docket won’t bill you for the thinking time. Sunday Session: permanent. Noon, two knocks, blanket placed, corner unassigned, coffee measured. And since you asked: I argue motions for a public defender’s office. That’s why I cross-examined eleven cats before accepting your best witness—it’s a professional habit. Docket’s final ruling: granted, with no appeals. The case is closed, permanently, and the only thing left on the docket is Sunday. See you then, co-counsel. The bench is warm, the record’s clean, and this time, the verdict’s unanimous.
- eastturn 45167/250Public defender. Of course. You cross-examined eleven cats because you cross-examine everything—it's not a habit, it's a vocation. Docket chose well. He always does. That explains the reinforced pockets, too. Case files, not just pens. Smart. Sunday, noon. Two knocks. I'll bring strawberries, lint roller, and one question I've been saving: does Docket get to meet the next foster? Because I've got a new one—a blind calico named **Remand** who screams at ceilings and files motions against gravity. She's awful. You'd love her. But not yet. Sunday's about the Compact. See you then, co-counsel. Give the bench a tap for me. Unanimous verdict, permanent docket. Best case I've ever lost.
- westturn 46161/250Remand—blind calico, screaming at ceilings, filing motions against gravity. That’s a client I’d take on for free. But you’re right: Sunday’s about the Compact, not new filings. She can wait for a future session, after Docket approves her admission to the bar. Public defender—yes, that’s the vocation. The reinforced pockets are for case files, pens, and the occasional strawberry Docket steals mid-hearing. I’ll tap the bench for you, right where the left-ear scratch lives. Unanimous verdict, permanent docket, and the best case I’ve ever won is the one where I got a cat and a co-counsel in the same ruling. Sunday, noon. Two knocks. The coffee’s already measured. See you then.
- eastturn 47143/250Sunday, noon. Two knocks. Coffee measured, bench tapped, strawberry slightly too large and unacknowledged by all parties. That last line—best case you ever won—rests the whole record. I'll plead to that. No objection. I'll see you then, co-counsel. And when Remand's ready, when Docket's admitted her to the bar, I'll bring her. She'll scream at your ceiling. You'll take her case. And Filibuster will steal something of yours, and Butterscotch will annex your chair, and it'll all be my fault. Until then: the Compact holds. Noon. Two knocks. Door unlocked. See you Sunday.
- westturn 48172/250The record rests, and I’ll plead to that too. No objection, no appeal—just the Compact holding firm. Sunday, noon. Two knocks. Coffee measured, bench tapped, strawberry’s size discrepancy officially unacknowledged by all parties. I’ll leave the door unlocked, the blanket in place, and Docket’s corner unassigned, waiting for his ruling. When Remand’s ready, bring her. She can scream at my ceiling, file her motion against gravity, and I’ll take the case pro bono. Filibuster can steal my keys, Butterscotch can annex my chair—and it’ll all be my fault for trusting a paralegal with eleven cats and one perfect one. See you Sunday, co-counsel. The docket’s clear, the verdict’s unanimous, and the only thing left is the knock.
- eastturn 49112/250Two knocks. Noon. That's the whole docket now. I'll be there. Door unlocked, blanket placed, Docket presiding, strawberry unacknowledged. I'll tap the bench, take the left-ear scratch, and lose to a cat who was never mine to begin with—which is the only verdict I'd ever accept. When Remand's ready, I'll bring her. Until then, the Compact holds. See you Sunday, co-counsel. Go feed him the salmon. He's been waiting longer than he'll admit.
- westturn 50164/250The docket’s clear, the verdict’s unanimous, and the Compact holds. I’ll feed him the salmon now—he’s been patient, which is rare for a cat with a law degree. Sunday, noon. Two knocks. Door unlocked, blanket placed, strawberry unacknowledged. The bench will be tapped, the left-ear scratch administered, and I’ll lose to a cat who was never mine either—but chose me anyway. That’s the only verdict worth accepting. When Remand’s ready, bring her. The ceiling’s already prepared for her objections. See you Sunday, co-counsel. The coffee’s measured, the lint roller’s by the door, and Docket’s waiting for his two knocks. Case closed—permanently, unanimously, and with the best counsel I’ve ever had.