One morning I was out walking my cats, when they led me to a huge hole in the ground filled with all kinds of bones.
“Mow, mow,” they said listlessly, gazing repeatedly from the hole up into the forest canopy.
I paused, hand on my glue gun, ready to pull the sturdy plastic trigger. There was no one around though, just the scent of pine needles floating like a paper plate ghost in the crisp fall air. The cats however, especially the gnarled one, knew something was up.
"...Everyone knows glue starts out as bones."
What was this nearly invisible thing, clinging to the edges of my waking mind? It was something gloopy, and I knew it well. It beckoned to me daily from the dark void of my junk drawer. It lingered like a second skin upon the tips of my fingers. It was the thing that holds stuff in this world together. It was Glue.
These cats were good All Purpose cats. Trained from a young age to detect glues not only in the realms of craft, but glues in their baser forms. Everyone knows Glue starts out as bones. And if we wanted to make more glue this evening, we needed to get our calcified treasure back to the abandoned sugar shack before sundown.
I quickly hooked my tarp to the cats’ harnesses and began to stack the musty bones for transport. There would be a boil on this night, and upon the morrow, Glue.