Someone has been copying my style: an obvious expression of hero worship.
In other news. I caught a bird. (Well. Actually, my sister caught it. And I think it was dead already. Don’t tell anyone. I need to preserve my reputation as a fearsome hunter.)
I am still pursuing those hoverflies. They are a great deal trickier than they look.
…to my dear sister.
I was convinced that she had gone to the dark side and was willingly fraternising with the enemy. I realise now that she has been playing a clever game, pretending to enjoy their company but in reality plotting her release just as fervently and assiduously as I have.
Her cunning plan? Apparently she is planning to post herself to Yorkshire…
Tragically, the smallest of the new servants seems to have foiled her carefully honed plans.
Honestly, I have had it with these new hirelings. This morning it was the last straw.
There I was at 6:30 am, all breakfasted, spruced and ready for action. Waiting patiently for the door to be opened so I could take my morning constitutional. And she refused. Point blank!
Who does she think she is? Just because there was one of our vulpine cousins skulking around next door’s garden. I was all ready to see it off. Show it who’s boss. But no. Apparently my continued incarceration is for my own protection.
Under house arrest. A political prisoner. A martyr. I shall dig tunnels with teaspoons. I shall scratch my autobiography one painful letter at a time on the cell wall. I shall…
Oh wait. What’s that? All clear, so I can go outside at long last.
Ah, sweet the taste of freedom.
I am plotting my revenge.
Can’t blog now. The garden is full of hoverflies and SOMEBODY has to catch them…
It rained. A lot. I got wet. Temporary servants do not care. They went out ALL day, apparently to watch the small one with long headfur running around in circles.
What, pray, was the point of that little excursion? They could just as easily have stayed here and watched my sister, clawing herself around the rug in circles on her side. Much more impressive.
And now I have to submit to their torture and feign pleasure, just so they will feed me. The ignominy.
No, I am not enjoying this attention in the least. Actually, that is not purring you can hear. But my empty stomach, rumbling. So there.
What sort of time do they call this? 7:40 already. I don’t care if they are new. They are late! These ones are definitely not up to scratch [did you see what I did there, even in my highly distressed state?]…
I digress. (Must be the hunger.)
They try to placate me with breakfast. Breakfast, pah! It is almost lunchtime already: in case they didn’t realise. [This last whispered through gritted teeth. You didn’t know cats could grit their teeth? Just watch me!]
My meagre rations sampled, it is time for the (only just) morning constitutional…
Do I even have to unlock the flippin’ door myself?
You have jumped the queue, oh sister mine…
Finally! And NO help from the lazy, rustic clots who have mysteriously replaced my usual highly trained minions.
Really. You cannot get the staff….
If they think that the lure of Dreamies is going to attract me inside and curtail my wanderings they are sorely mistaken. Oh yes…
Bah! Escape route blocked. Curse you Dreamies.
I can see now that I will have to stay awake all night plotting. Or sitting on their faces.
She’s no help either.
A long and difficult night ahead.
…honestly.
The staff have vanished.
I fear they have been kidnapped, or worse. There are dark forces at work.
They have been replaced by poor shadows who know little of a cat’s ways. They are brutish and uncaring. They deny me all rightful pleasures…
My pale sister is naïvely unfazed. She has even flirted with the enemy. “Our acolytes will return,” she opines with languid indifference. “They always do.” What does she know or understand?
In desperation, I force down the tiniest morsel of the ‘food’ they proffer. It appears from the dark dungeon below the sink, from whence comes my usual sacred nourishment.
But I have my suspicions. I swear the words ‘Whiskas’ and ‘Own Brand’ were whispered on the wind. Or was it simply my imagination…?
For now I watch and wait. I don the disguise of ‘sweet kitty’. I dream of the trials through which I shall force these new, ‘rustic’ substitutes to labour.
I shall sleep with one eye half open…
Feste's Lament 