Cat of POTUS, cut out with scissors and a smile.
01
Call me Trump. I’m the cat with the big hair, the louder purr, and the corners of this page snipped by hand. Someone taped my name tag on crooked and it felt right. I like sunbeams that look like a rally of light across the floor, and the sound a marker makes when it squeaks a heart next to my photo.
I post up on the sill like it’s a podium. The lawn is a stage; a blue jay heckles, I blink slow. Coffee steam curls under my chin—smells like promises and toast. A sunburst lands on my whiskers and I hold still, letting the light give me a tiny press conference.
There’s a stack of Very Important Papers. I warm them. My tail underlines a sentence nobody will read because I sat on it. A hair drifts down—golden, unruly, mine. Someone laughs. I sign the moment with a soft paw on the margin: one bean, two bean, stamp.
not on chain yet
No ticker to trade, no address to copy—not yet. TRUMPCAT is heading to pump.fun, and when the button below turns real, this is where it’ll live.
04
A silk tie dangles off a chair like a challenge coin. I bat it left, it swings right—great chemistry. I square my shoulders, raise my chin, perfect the Victory Sit. Camera click; I give them profile. Later, a neighbor kid waves through the fence. I wave back with my tail.
I curl on the couch where the cushion dips a little like it knows me. The TV glow fades; the house gets that end‑of‑day hush. If you tape this page a little crooked, I won’t mind. See you tomorrow—same sunbeam, same big hair, same name on the collar: TRUMPCAT.