The Catparents have stooped to a new low. I suspect this is in retaliation for my having taken over the house. But what did they expect?
Did they not realise that, once given access to all areas, I would treat the place as my own? That I would claim the chairs, tables, sofas and beds as thrones in my rightful palace? How little they appreciate the way of us cats.
I had thought initially that they were fully cognisant of the pecking order that must exist in any house containing both humans and cats. After all, they allowed me to roam free, even into the bedrooms and (joy of joys!) the bathroom. This is the behaviour of humans comfortable with their place in feline society.
But now (oh most heinous of heinous crimes!) they have shut the door to the kitchen and prevented me from accessing this room; this most desirable of rooms, where the food is prepared. And why? Because they have – shudder – a builder ‘doing some work’ in there.
They say it is because of a damp problem. They say it urgently needs fixing. They say it will soon be over. But this ‘builder’ has been here a week now, and I see no signs of any such ‘damp’. And, even if it truly exists, how can this possibly be granted a higher priority than my need to sniff around the cupboards that I know to contain inestimable treats? I am speechless.
I believe I know what they are up to. With the loud bangs and crashes that now emanate from this direction, they are attempting to make me fear the food court. They wish me to view it as a terrifying place, where noisy humans roam free and employ bizarre instruments of torture (‘trowels’, ‘pipes’, and the dreaded ‘weather boards’), so that I will no longer dare to venture into it.
This is a vile trick, and one which I had previously considered beneath even them. To have tempted me into this hall of delights, where aromatic scents permeate the air and tasty morsels are passed within inches of my delicate nose; to have allowed me regularly to take up position on the counter when they serve their feasts and to dream of appropriating a sneaky snifter when their backs are turned; only then to shut the door on me and laugh in my face? It is an insult not to be borne.
So I have taken action in the only way I can: by making excessive demands of the humans in an attempt to register my displeasure. For this enterprise I have recruited my erstwhile collaborator, Mr Yellow Mouse, to assist me, and this time he has brought a friend in the form of a miniature stuffed Christmas tree. They kindly allow me to hurl them continually behind sofas, up stairs and under beds. I then feign inability to retrieve them, and for added effect I scratch ceaselessly at the furniture, keeping up a constant wailing that indicates my misery at having ‘lost’ my favourite toys.
I can already see that this is working on Catmother’s nerves and will eventually grind her down. Already I have her on her hands and knees, with a flashlight, burrowing under said furniture, seeking out my precious darlings every ten minutes. Oh yes. It will not be long before she comes to acknowledge her rightful place in my home, and realises that my affections are not to be trifled with.
In the meantime I must be patient. I continue to observe the human intruder through the dining room window as he ‘works’ in the back yard, and I am certain he is becoming increasingly disturbed by my interest. I have every confidence that he will soon be unnerved enough to feel he has no option but to pack up and leave. And then, my friends, with no further excuses to fall back on, the Catparents will hand me the keys to the food hall once more and my privileges will be returned!
Soon. Very soon…