On being mobbed

I woke to the sound of the cat meowing this morning. After opening the door for her, I went back to bed. The mobbers had heard me get up and picked up the babbling.

Get out.

I got you out of Microsoft.

I killed your cat.

I’ve let go questions about how they operate, always focusing on the importance of not allowing myself to be wearied with trying to figure something out that’s designed to frustrate and tire me to the point where I’ll give up and leave my home. So I don’t know for sure how much they actually see, and how much of it might just be shotgun or parabolic microphones and a lot of close listening or close listening in combination with knowledge of my habits acquired before the mobbing began. But this morning I felt like poking at them for a change.

“What am I itching now?” I asked.

There was dead silence.

“Where’s my finger now?”

Nothing.

The babble resumed, the murmurs soft and nonresponsive.