Michael's cat

When I look up from my desk, I see pictures in all directions. One is a drawn picture that Michael did. He colored a house. It is transparent with sea foam trim and a domed roof and chimney to boot. A man stands next to it and his left arm is sticking through the transparent abode below the roof and ceiling. He too is transparent, but he is a purple man and rather rotund. His legs enlarge as they approach the ground like extended telescopes. At the base are three toes on each spyglass. They are deep-rooted in the earthy brown muck known as ground. A red and blue Venus flytrap, see through as well, grow straight and sturdy from the mucky earth. Up above is a scribbled sky with an orange sun. Somewhere between the earth and sky floats a blue tree. It is really a kernel of popcorn on a stick, but you know what was intended. It hangs freely just below the warm, glowing orange orb. There is a feline, drawn on white paper with a red pen, cut out, and pasted to this bucolic scene, as if to say, “Oops, I almost forgot the cat?”