So. The builder has, er, left the building, and I am once more restored to my rightful position as Head of the Kitchen. I can now resume my worktop wanderings free from dust, commotion and unexpected encounters with strange humans. I can freely sniff the air, hop from sink to scales to breadbin, and relax in the fruit bowl to my heart’s content. This is as it should be.
However, I am saddened to report that my trials continue: the Catparents have instigated a new ordeal for me. Since the upheaval of the so-called ‘damp’ work, they have decided that my precious food bowls and – gulp – litter trays are to be moved to this new area.
I am flabbergasted.
How can they be ignorant of the fact that we cats must have our routine? That we cannot tolerate even the slightest rearrangement of our essential property? That any attempt to force us into such realignment is likely to result in the scattering of both food and litter across every available surface, as we desperately try to restore some sort of order to our universe? The barbarity of these creatures knows no bounds.
However, fellow felines, take heart. I am adopting a novel approach to this new insult: I am choosing to rise above it… by complying. Ha! That will perplex them. They will no doubt be expecting me to fail miserably at adjusting to my new environment, so that they can say to their fellow humans, ‘How hopeless cats are! How can they ever expect to succeed in world domination when they cannot even work out where to poop?’
But I am on to them. I can perceive their dastardly plan to undermine us by pulling the rug (or tray) out from under us at every turn – and I will not give them the satisfaction of thinking they have won the battle.
Whilst I realise there can sometimes be political advantage to conforming to their expectations (fooling them is often the key to gaining further ground), on this occasion I will flaunt my full range of competencies and acclimatise immediately to my new habitat. They will not be expecting me to adapt so quickly in the face of their merciless torments, and will no doubt be terrified, wondering what other mighty powers may be at my disposal!
So I eat my food, drink my water, and conduct my toilet neatly where I am supposed to. How satisfying it is to maintain my dignity in these provoking circumstances, and how my self-esteem is enhanced by yet again foiling the humans.
However, I cannot let them off the hook entirely; they must suffer some penalty for attempting to bewilder me in this manner. So I try, when I can, to ensure that my poops are as malodorous as possible. I persist in waiting by the dining table for my food, as if in reproach. I grind my biscuits down into tiny pieces, leaving the bowl still half full, then miaow vociferously for more.
But my favourite trick, which came upon me by pure luck, is to play incessantly with a rattling plastic ball that Catmother unearthed during the builder’s visit. She gave it to me in a moment of affectionate generosity, as if to compensate me for the disruption – and oh! how she has regretted it ever since! The cacophony of this ball on wooden floors goes beyond anything I have ever achieved with Mr Yellow Mouse and Mr Christmas Tree – and I am savouring every minute of it.
Rest assured, my friends, the battle is far from over. I shake my little ball on the catwalk, and watch the humans crumble.
Until next time…