A short soliloquy from a cat coping with a toddler:
Escape at last! The human spawn will never find me here. Are all my whiskers intact? The fiend was in fine form this morning. Not a moment’s peace. Chased all round the house. Tail pulled, ears mauled. Oh, how sore my face is! I can’t believe the little beast found it fun to grab my whiskers. I’ve been so patient, but now, my tolerance is at an end. With this torment indoors, my life is constant misery.
It all went downhill when the small human started walking upright. Why does it bother? It was far more stable on four legs. It may be faster at getting around but its movements are wild. Nearly had the drooling child fall on top of me. The feeling of its sticky fingers on my glossy fur. Repulsive!
Not forgetting the incident of the catnip mouse. My best mouse, carefully chewed in one corner to release the sensuous opiate. Found, half drowned. In the toilet of all places. The loss haunts me.
Why did the human slaves have to procreate? My kingdom was already perfect. And how naive I was to think it would be short term. My own fluffy babies were self-sufficient in twelve weeks, and I sent them off into the big wide world without a second thought. Job done.
The human spawn is pathetic in comparison. I can’t believe it still needs spoon feeding by the human slaves. And the smell it makes. So unhygienic. If I had the training of it, it would have been out in the garden learning to take care of its business properly. But it was months before the thing could even lift its own head. And now, a whole year later, it still relies on the human slaves for everything. And here’s the crux of it—they have less time for me.
Remember how it was? I used to be the centre of attention. All I had to do was flex my front paw and do a tiny meow. They’d be all over me. “What do you want? Aw, so cute. Cuddle time, furball.”
Cuddle time. Ha! That’s a thing of the past. Now they chuck food in my bowl and say, “That’s the cat sorted.” As if I were another chore. I deserve more than this. I have to be adored.
I can’t see things getting better. Especially with rumours of a D.O.G. coming. As if this place isn’t hell enough. I know what those grubby animals are like. Slobber everywhere. Barely half a brain cell. Feed me, play with me, roll over, play dead, stupid barking! My ears will be under constant assault and my tail in never ending danger.
What can I do? I’ve been so restrained. The temptation to sharpen my claws down the fiend’s bawling face is hard to resist. I need to be more subtle though. Maybe I could go and sit on its face in the night? That would do it. Then the slaves would be all mine once more.
Or would they? Would they be upset? Would they get another one? Can things ever go back to the way they were? I don’t trust them not to get a D.O.G. either.
No, my best bet is to move on. I know when I’m not wanted. I need adulation, and I see it slipping away. I must use my powers of persuasion on someone more susceptible. What about the elderly human two doors away? I’ve smelled tuna coming from her kitchen. And its warm in there. I think she has a log fire—I can smell the wood smoke on cold days.
Put my best cute face on. Big eyes, pathetic look. I’ll hang round her back door at mealtimes and try and get in the house. After she’s experienced the honour of my presence, she’ll be only too happy to let me stay. Yes, that’s the best plan. They’ll be sorry when I’m gone.