I have been pacing for hours and now I simply wait on the bathroom sink. The constant meowing I have been forced to resort to has left my throat parched, and now, I am beginning to lose hope.
I would settle for a drop of water.
Alas, my world is a vast desert of deprivation. My food dish is resoundingly empty. I can actually see the pattern on the bottom of the dish. In a cruel twist of irony, it is a fish, swimming in a blue lake of glazed porcelain. This is something I have never understood.
Nevertheless, it is not real, and I can not eat it. This I discovered years ago, admittedly to some embarrassment at the time.
Even though I do not yet show physical signs of starvation, the emotional strain of this indignity is almost too much to bear. It will not be long before the feelings inside me begin to manifest as gaunt cheeks, rattling ribs, and a belly sucked up to my backbone.
This alone could finish me off, but I have not mentioned the worst part of all. The cat door is closed.
I am caged, and my territory outside has gone completely un-patrolled all night. That bastard who lives in the back alley is probably shitting in all of my prime spots, right on my carefully placed poops.
I think I may be getting an ulcer.
Wait! I hear something. A rustling has finally started in the bedroom. Up until this moment it has been a disgusting den of sloth. They have been literally doing nothing but laying there since it got dark last night. I have been forced to check periodically by walking across their faces to make sure they haven’t died. Fortunately, I have the power to sense their breaths with my tail when it is placed under their nose-holes.
She is coming out!
My savior and my only love: the yellow head.
Blissfully, I have pats and water dripping from the faucet in a little stream.
I am still far from satisfied, but at least she is making an effort now. I jump down and position myself by the door, making the irresistible baby-cry mew I have been perfecting. She seems to be immune to my powers and has begun making a cup of tea.
I pace. This is a mystery, and it is completely unacceptable.
Finally, she is putting on her removable fur, another mystery that I can not begin to fathom.
There!
Finally, she has opened that damn door.
I smell it first. The sharpness of the air after so many hours of stagnant suffocation stops me in my tracks. I am reminded that this is a situation that I must approach with extreme caution.
I pick my way outside, scanning the perimeter for danger.
Then, as I reach the bottom of the stairs, I am hit with a horrible thing.
It is water, and it strikes my nose, then my ears, then all of me at the same time. It is relentless and wild. I see that it is pouring out of the sky in a most uncivilized way, covering the ground in disgusting puddles and bogs which I will not be able to navigate safely. I draw back to the stairs.
From behind me, I hear the yellow-head saying “Oh Captain, it’s raining, you don’t want to go out in the rain anyway.”
This is true. Clever wench.
She opens the door and I sprint through it. A surge of gratitude over being on dry land again overwhelms me. I decide the best way to express it is to lick myself.
The yellow-head pets me and gives me some of the tiny delicious cookies she is able to produce from a bag. We sit on the couch, enveloped in blankets, and I am safe and content at last.
