My dear comrades, I have shocking news to report; news that borders on the unbelievable. The humans have taken yet another step towards the fires of hell in which they shall be consumed when the day of feline judgement finally arrives.
As a puss of delicate sensibilities, I have certain needs. I require adequate facilities to devour my noms, carry out the grooming of my elegantly smoothed fur, and – last but by no stretch of the imagination least – perform my toilet routines with the minimum of fuss and stress.
I have been accustomed to conduct my sanitary business in the giant outdoor litter tray the humans refer to as the ‘back garden’. A gently sprinkled layer of a substance known as ‘gravel’ acts as a most welcome receptacle for the subtly perfumed deposits of my perfectly formed behind.
Ah, the relief this brings me! I cannot express in mere words what joy it is to ease the heaviness of one’s innards by quietly crouching, paws akimbo, in the centre of one’s territory, with a gentle breeze softly caressing one’s exquisitely twitching ears and ruffling one’s impeccably quivering whiskers.
Not only does this activity bring me much-needed physical ease, it is also a primary tactic in my ongoing strategy for keeping the neighbourhood felines in check. Who will dare to cross Pasha in her prime, when my occupancy of this kingdom is so clearly indicated for all to sniff? I mark my scent, and every cat in the vicinity bows down in awe and fear at this reminder of my wondrousness!
But now my personal comfort, not to mention my supreme weapon in fending off the worst ravages of Mr B*stard, has been compromised by the idiotic Catparents – and for what? For nothing other than the desire to emulate other equally halfwitted humans by acquiring an outlandish feature known to them by the bizarre name of ‘decking’.
This ‘decking’ consists of wooden planks, which now stretch almost as far as my keenly perceptive eye can see, from one edge of my domain to the other. The merest tract of gravel remains at the far reaches, between the Bamboo of Felix and the Wheelbarrow of Flump. It is here, I presume, that I am expected to take care of my personal hygiene.
This is an outrage. Not only did the Catparents fail to even make a show of consulting me before embarking on this appalling venture (ha! they no doubt knew what short shrift they would receive from my resolutely sharpened claws!); they also – you will be stunned to hear this – kept me inside my castle for one night following this upset.
Yes! A whole night with no access to the outer parts of my realm! I am still reeling at the affront.
They said it was to keep me safe from a toxic ‘treatment’ that needed to dry. They said it was not their fault and their hands were tied. They said I could still use the small litter tray placed by the tradesman’s entrance for my ‘convenience’.
As if I, Pasha, feline luminary for our times, would demean herself by complying with their wishes in such a submissive manner! No, I held out high hopes that I would revenge myself on the pair of them by making a sly, odoriferous, nocturnal deposit in a location designed to cause them maximum discomfort and disruption.
Alas, this was not to be. Ultimately, even for the sake of vengeance, I could not bring myself to endure the hard floors or their prickly coverings in my quest for lavatorial tranquillity. Friends, I resigned myself to the indignity of the small litter tray, and prayed for morning.
I am now free to come and go as I please. I have adopted the new confined space as my own, and am attempting to make the best of this humiliating situation. However, you will not be surprised to hear that I am now fully committed to seeking retribution against the humans for this new atrocity.
It may take me some time to formulate the perfect plan, but I have no doubt that my formidable brain will prove more than adequate to the task and I will eventually prevail. And the humans will rue the day they dared to meddle with the ritual of my ablutions!
Soon. Very soon.