Annals of the Coolest Cat in Town

I was adopted when my previous staff moved to England. I do miss them so. My full name is Clementine because my previous servants thought I looked like a country western Muppet when I was a kitten, at times I still do. Other times I am all creamy grace stretching to see what lies beyond the window pane or holding out a slender limb like a prima ballerina to take a proper bath. In the sunlight the orange cream of my under fur looks like a soft creamsicle beneath my shiny brindled coat.

I am generally quite refined but there are a few raucous moments in my life: when a feeding is delayed by my servant’s lax schedule; or perhaps a twirling ribbon, a flashing light beam or a bit of cat nip brings out my inner tiger. Then I meow plaintively or pounce and cavort like a star athlete always stopping before the servants halt the ribbon’s flow or turn off the light. Like any proud athlete I call the shots.

I am a tortoiseshell or tortie for short and conduct myself in true tortie fashion. I am affectionate only when the moment hits but then I am a warm ball of love, licking hands with my sandpaper tongue as if they were pure caviar. I won’t allow reading when I expect attention, sticking my head in opened books with a look that shames. Then I enjoy much fuss and prattle pats, and rubs. A quick roll over for a momentary tummy tickle is reserved only for special occasions when I am feeling particularly cozy. I will climb upon a willing lap for two minutes tops. Then I am off; there is much I have to do and my day is always too short.

I eat daintily and never too much, never throw up hair balls or have accidents as you might expect from my air of quiet dignity. I highly disapprove of messes. I am a lady as almost all torties are. No macho torties allowed in the breed. My purrs are modulated, no kowtowing for me.  A kiss on each of my cheeks in the French mode is generally acceptable but a big American bear hug is not appreciated. I am a cat’s cat after all.

Recently I suffered from a horrible experience. A bob cat and I were engaged in a bitter struggle from which I emerged wounded but proud for holding my own. My servant arrived in the nick of time with a well thrown shoe that scared away the nasty intruder.

Frightened I scampered onto the roof only to find myself being severely harassed by a crowd of mocking crows. Again my servant showed good common sense. She shook the tree and mocked the crows right back. Ha! I thought. Just what they deserve. I found myself appreciating once again the fine qualities of my loyal staff and forgave them their inadequacies. They are only human after all. When both the male and female members of the staff encouraged me long enough I climbed down from the roof. I was fussed and cooed over and rather inept first aid was attempted.

The next day my wounds were not looking well at all. I was feeling feverish and rather blue. The servants packed me up in a portable ambulance that they clumsily carried to the dreaded animal clinic. Fortunately the staff there took good care of me being well schooled in emergency care. Unfortunately, they shaved my beautiful fur and left me looking far too shabby and with a punk hairdo that I could not face in the window glass.

My fur is growing back to its previous beauty so now I can look anyone in the eye.m My golden eyes have returned to their previous glossy state. I feel certain all my physical charms are back. It was dreadful to have been so unkempt.

A very sad outcome of the bobcat encounter is that I am no longer allowed out into the world. I lament that every day. It is not quite the same that the servants open the windows and the sliding doors. Putting your face to the screen and sniffing is nothing like sticking your head in the grass and nibbling a leaf or two.

The servants have been far more entertaining since the accident, devising silly games and encouraging me to play when really they should be tending to household chores. I have to admit that a good tussle with a ribbon does make me feel fulfilled for a short while but it pales in comparison to catching a mouse to have prepared for my dinner. One has to make do, though.

I never did know what happened to those catches anyway. After loudly praising my mouse or sometimes even a nice large roof rat, I would be expecting it grilled for dinner or at least tartare with a nice sauce. But not once did that happen. A mystery I could never explain.

Oh well, those halcyon days are gone but life still has many pleasures for me. My days are still too short but that doesn’t stop me from going to sleep thinking, Damn that bobcat, damn his glittering eyes. And oh how I make mincemeat of him in my dreams.