Call me by my silly name.

Call me Mary. I know I’ve just nicked that from the start of Moby Dick. To be honest I never really got past the first line. But then I am a cat, what do you expect? Him has cloaked my true identity for too long. It is time to reveal myself to the world. No, not like that, it was bad enough when they shaved me to have my lady bits fiddled with. Such shame. I suspect that the pair of them think they’re oh so clever giving me such a unique name but in reality it’s a stupid name and they’re a pair of fucking idiots. Loveable, but idiots. So now I have to live with ‘Miss Hairy Mary Miyagi’ on my cat passport. Call me Mary. Or Miss Awesome McPrettyPuss. Yes, I prefer that.

You can’t imagine the pressure involved in tying this house together. Lord only knows how Him and She coped before I arrived. I recall trying to ask them some questions, accompanied with extravagant paw gestures, on our long drive back from Grimsby but they didn’t seem interested in them. Due to their relentless stupidity they couldn’t even set up my kitten cage properly and so I promptly escaped from captivity, like the A-Team. But they looked stressed so I decided to be the bigger kitten and let them lock me away again. I paid them back the next day by unloading a big puddle of toxic shit all over the bathroom just before She left for work. She had to clean me up. Him had left already, either because he was busier or luckier. What am I saying; Him never seems as busy as She.

I believe the exploits and elasticity of my rectum have been discussed by Him (how indiscreet) at another point on this forum so I won’t go into them again but should just say that as a kitten dribbling liquid faeces from her sphincter I acted at all times with supreme dignity and showed a form of appreciation towards those who spent hours spraying carpets and wiping up after me and so on. I can understand why they never thanked me but they might at least ask themselves whether they could have done something better and sooner to sort my arsehole out. I hope they didn’t buy me as some kind of hobby. A silky soft time killer with lovely markings.

I reckon I am now about one and a half years old. In human years. Which is no fucking use at all as a reference point. I have made numerous observations and passed through a series of self imposed tests and have declared myself a fully fledged member of the grown up cat world. My moments of hyperactivity have been marginally quelled and replaced with many long, lazy days curled up on the sofa. Or on their bed. Or the other bed. Or on some clean clothes in a wardrobe. Indeed anywhere other than on the bedding provided specifically for cats to sleep on. In the specifically defined cat sleeping areas. Why bother? I don’t even much use the igloo those nice ladies gave me. I wonder how they are. Him and She, being simpletons, made the same mistake with the scratch post facilities which doubtless cost them a few pounds but are infinitely inferior to ‘edge of the leather sofa scratchpost’, ‘both end corners of the freshly made bed scratchpost’ and of course the ‘entire stairway and upper floors carpet scratchpost’. I suppose I can get by for now.

Food is a different issue entirely and securing a suitable level of quality and quantity has become something of a war of attrition. Him buys most of my food (all actually, which is a shame) and then tries to ration it out to establish some sense of reason and rotation. Fortunately She just wants my love and so doles out the nicest stuff until it’s run out and then asks Him to get some more. Him seems very under the paw but I think he just accepts he is trapped in a cycle of mistreatment (a bit like #MeToo only different. I don’t really know if #MeToo is all that useful but I might if I understood what it meant) and gets on with it the best he can. If Him were writing this that might sound like a cry for help. But Him’s not, I am. He’ll live. He probably should be grateful. Anyway, I don’t think Him feeds me enough. Just saying. And if I find out that Sheba and Gourmet are bargain basement crap I’m going to be bloody livid.

So overall my life is bearable. Being downtrodden and browbeaten has just become an everyday reality. I hope that people can see the sadness and emotional poverty that lurks beneath my almost impossible beauty. I suspect that Him and She will never really be able to reciprocate the love I try to show for them when I leave angry, crimson scratch marks on their forearms. They just like to kiss my gorgeous little face, which is weird. I’ve tried to find some escape by making friends. Not other cats, obviously, because they’re generally twats. When it was warm I adored an evening frolic with a moth. They loved it when I jumped up and down on them and then pretended to torture them. Even better chum material is to be found in the world of mice. I invited my first one in the other day and may have mildly wounded it during our ‘playtime’. Him and She both squealed like a pair of gaylords (note to self: must find out what a gaylord is). Him had to wrap it in a piece of kitchen towel and hit it with a brick. He says a mouse ‘playing’ with me is like him (not Him, I think, I’m getting tired) ‘playing’ with a bull African elephant during mating season. This makes no sense to me because I don’t know what an elephant is. Because I am a cat. And you may call me Mary.

Miss H M Miyagi. 02.11.2018