Life & Stuff

Notes from Kitty: my travelling mum

kitty-column

Hello.

Yes, it’s the cat writing. I’ve been quiet for too long about this and it’s time to break my silence. Seeing that you have all been following what my mother gets up to trotting around the globe, I figured that you already know the pain and sufferance she has endowed upon me (not us, just me), so I needn’t explain why I am now pawing my way on this keyboard to tell you that enough is enough.

I demand to be heard.

She is not a very good mother, my mum. Sure, she rescued me from the uncertain fate of feral kittens found in a factory in Blacktown (it’s in Sydney, I hear it’s lovely); she weened me using plastic nipples of which she called ‘the bottle’; she wormed me when I farted gazillions of black wiggly beings onto her blanket. She is super, my mum, but also not very good.

For one thing, she disappears all the time.

Apparently there is a world out there to discover, and I’d be handed over to the care of whoever is able to spare a bit of room for me. or worse, she’ll leave me alone in the house, an action which is usually signified with her being overly generous with my daily food rations, which I mistake for kindness but now I know… she just wanted to compensate for the fact that I might be hungry for the next couple of days.

She’ll disappear for days, sometimes weeks, and she never brought me presents once.

A couple of days is fine, I am usually left at home to discover my inner sanctum. It’s the weeks that I worry, for that’s when I am banished to spend time at what she calls the ‘cattery’. Cat Siberia more like, where I am forced to tolerate the others whose fate equaled mine.

I don’t mind being left alone. I come from a line of huntresses out in the open fields and I am genetically capable of a solitary life and not eating for a few days. Of course, mum doesn’t know that, and I make sure to display my utter disapproval the minute she steps back into the house, occasionally I’d leave her poo in the corridor just to make a point.

I also know that she’ll eventually come back. She misses me when she goes away, I know, so I always make sure I cover her clothes completely with my fur so that wherever she goes she can be reminded of me. I am sure the extra fur will keep her un-furred body warm too.

How any one can survive so long without fur I’ll never know.

One day, mum brought home a man called Will whom I am supposed to call dad, which was fine by me, he is home a lot more often and knows how to open cans. But then trouble came: after a couple of years they conceived Angel.

I don’t know why they ever wanted another kid, I am a purrfectly fine specimen of an offspring that I felt a little offended at their action.

She was meant to keep me busy and active, they said, apparently I was getting too fat.

Well, what was I supposed to do when I am constantly left alone when they went off travelling? They could have at least took me along. So I ate, and ate and consoled my sorrows in food.

And can I just say, Angel is a snotty dumb-ar$e f*ker of a little sister.

Angel doesn’t know anything, nor does she learn. She and her furry tushy strut around the place like she owned it. No, I own it, she just happens to live in it. And when she is about to get in trouble, she just flopped down looking as cute as possible, like that’s going to help her cause.

Unfortunately, most of the time, it does. Mum is the worst sucker at her antics.

I figured she needed some lessons so every time mum and dad are not here, she gets it.

And they are away, a lot.

It’s no joy however, because Angel doesn’t learn, and now instead of just me being left alone, they’ve given me the extra job of babysitting Angel when they are away, occasions that are again signified with additional servings of food and the bags that appear in the lounge room.

What mum and dad doesn’t know is that I would eat all Angel’s food and then sit on her, make her promise that she’ll never tell. That’ll teach this f*ken annoying little s*it some manners.

It’s not my fault she can’t defend herself. It’s every cat for themselves kind of world.

I know how Grumpy Cat feels.

PS, You may have noticed that I am writing to you from a place called London. That’s a story for another day.

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