[In which That Cat has a very different memory of the last month...]
It has been nary a full moon cycle since I was cajoled, with promises of affection, from the tranquility of the neighbor’s sun-drenched porch into the plastic confines of a most egregious hell. I am still haunted by the olfactory specter of urine and my own terror; these scents that lingered in my memory and downy undercoat. A mere month, and yet it seems as if lifetimes have passed! Imagine if you can the slow revolution of the earth beneath us. Somewhere the rain furrows temporary canyons into the flinty terra firma. Somewhere pods burgeon with life into tender green shoots, even as leaves grow heavy with color and drift listlessly to the ground.
I bear witness to none of these common miracles, imprisoned as I am within 400 square feet.
Mother appears to have departed from all her senses. I can only assume her fragile mind was permanently fractured by the traumas we endured, rumbling along in the sweltering belly of the mechanical beast. I have long suspected she lacked mental fortitude. Recently my worst suspicions have been confirmed. She frequently shambles about in various stages of undress, swilling down an acidic dirt water that offends the nose. She becomes quite agitated when I do the simplest things, for example sharpening my claws on the furniture.
I do try to help the poor fool, ensuring she doesn’t injure herself in the process of cleaning, feeding, and clothing her pathetic human body every morning. I’ve found, through stringent scientific elimination, that she responds best to loud vocalization and an occasional swat directed at the Achilles tendon. Eventually, nearly every day, she becomes confused enough to leave the house. I do not know to where she goes, or to what she gets up to! I while away my time, momentarily fretting for her safety before slipping into the restful slumber of the proverbial housecat. Recently, she barged into the house reeking of spicy meats, sweat, and the devil’s brew. God knows what depraved situations she finds herself in. I do not trust this cult of “Taco Tuesday”.
It has been nary a full moon cycle since I was cajoled, with promises of affection, from the tranquility of the neighbor’s sun-drenched porch into the plastic confines of a most egregious hell. I am still haunted by the olfactory specter of urine and my own terror; these scents that lingered in my memory and downy undercoat. A mere month, and yet it seems as if lifetimes have passed! Imagine if you can the slow revolution of the earth beneath us. Somewhere the rain furrows temporary canyons into the flinty terra firma. Somewhere pods burgeon with life into tender green shoots, even as leaves grow heavy with color and drift listlessly to the ground.
I bear witness to none of these common miracles, imprisoned as I am within 400 square feet.
Mother appears to have departed from all her senses. I can only assume her fragile mind was permanently fractured by the traumas we endured, rumbling along in the sweltering belly of the mechanical beast. I have long suspected she lacked mental fortitude. Recently my worst suspicions have been confirmed. She frequently shambles about in various stages of undress, swilling down an acidic dirt water that offends the nose. She becomes quite agitated when I do the simplest things, for example sharpening my claws on the furniture.
I do try to help the poor fool, ensuring she doesn’t injure herself in the process of cleaning, feeding, and clothing her pathetic human body every morning. I’ve found, through stringent scientific elimination, that she responds best to loud vocalization and an occasional swat directed at the Achilles tendon. Eventually, nearly every day, she becomes confused enough to leave the house. I do not know to where she goes, or to what she gets up to! I while away my time, momentarily fretting for her safety before slipping into the restful slumber of the proverbial housecat. Recently, she barged into the house reeking of spicy meats, sweat, and the devil’s brew. God knows what depraved situations she finds herself in. I do not trust this cult of “Taco Tuesday”.
I am sorry to report I do not fare much better. Our domicile is beset on all sides by the most brutish scoundrels. One particular menace enjoys leering through the windows, taunting me with the freedom I am denied. Once whilst I lay in a peaceful reverie, pensively reflecting on the wondrous night sky, he materialized like a nightmare from the cover of his only true mother, The Darkness. The cry that tore itself from my throat was laden with rage and despair! I’m afraid the sound quite rattled poor mother, who sprang from her bed in a cumbersome flurry of confusion. Luckily, the demonic interloper was startled by the sight of her pale, bare breasts swinging pendulous in the darkness. He melted back into the oily night from whence he came.I have not seen him since, and can only pray the image remains branded in his memory, serving as a permanent deterrent.
Speaking of the night, I must mention that I quite fear for mother’s well-being. Perhaps these past long years I have been selfish, free as I was to wander the dark streets. Even then, no matter how sweet the gloaming dew felt beneath my paws, or how gently the wind rifled my majestic mane, I made sure to call on mother several times to ensure she was well. Now I see she has cleverly lulled me into a gross overestimation of her health. The horrifying truth is that every night, for as many as eight hours, mother becomes so despondent as to be non-responsive. She lies quite still in her bed, face pressed to a pillow, mechanically breathing.
In an attempt to rouse her spirits, I’ve taken to boisterously singing the traditional nightsongs, which run through my veins like blood itself. I encourage her participation with vigorous head kneading. It is often to no avail. She quite determinedly clings to her debilitating apathy. We are as two ships, drifting unmoored upon the tumultuous sea of each day.
Fortunately, I have found respite in my cat tower (the only thing I ever have or ever will love). For some mysterious reason, mother also derives an almost maniacal glee from my sanctuary. Every time she finds me curled restfully in its gentle cradle, she will either shake her head, smiling and muttering You’re the worst. Or crow joyous obscenities such as Goddammit, I KNEW you would like it eventually. I know not of what she speaks. As previously stated, the cat tree was, and always will be, the only thing I love.I know not where we go from here! I rise in the morning (and the early afternoon, and midday, and in the evening, and several times throughout the night) to fuel my body with ever-plentiful sustenance. I sleep, rousing occasionally only to seek out more direct sunlight. Infrequently, I muster the energy to vomit on the kitchen rug. But at present I feel as though I am merely going through the motions of a half life. I am certain the memories of my former freedom will wither and blow away, as all things must in time. I will know naught but the carefree pleasures of the housecat. I will want for nothing, and yet.
In my dreams, morning dew quivers on the trembling whiskers of my helpless prey. The vermin freezes, pointing a beady eye in the direction of where I crouch, tense and still. I am silent death. I am the reaper. I am stalking closer, and closer, and…
Dammit, mother! How dare you wake me from my dreaming! Yes, I know I am your cutest, most precious little angel. Truly, now is not the time to... Yes, I am also the flurfiest little kitteh. Yes. Of course, yes. I know.
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