A Straw for a Blade

The fighters on the screen had swords. Long, sharp ones. I looked down at my paws. Empty. I shuffled toward the low bookshelf. Behind a stack of thick magazines, something green poked out. A bendy plastic drinking straw. I grabbed it with both hands and gave it a firm tug. Pop. It came free. I raised it overhead. Slashed once at the empty air. Swish. It bent softly at the ridged neck, drooping down toward my forehead. I tilted my head. Touched the crinkled bend. Strong enough for training. I held it level, standing very still in front of my own shadow.