I am waiting for Colin. Colin isn’t a man or another cat, he is a tropical storm. If his wind strength increases a slight bit, he will become a full-fledged hurricane. He must be important, as all the weather stations are tracking him, and he is due to pass right over Bermuda. I’ll have to decide if I want to stay indoors.
My house sits on top of a high hill. When I look out of my windows, I can see the waves crashing over the reefs as one long, line of curling, white foam. The water is a milky turquoise; it is quite beautiful, but as Colin gets closer, this water will become ever paler as sand is churned up from the bottom. The rain has started; a gray mist smothers the horizon.
Trees are moving only slightly, so that means the wind is not yet strong. Outside, my hibiscus tree is covered with flowers, but they may not be there in the morning if Colin’s winds increase. I have seen that same tree stripped of every leaf and flower by a hurricane that was one of the strongest to hit the island in a thousand years. His name was Fabian and he struck on Sept. 5, 2003. That was the scariest night of my life. I will tell you about Fabian tomorrow. Or maybe it won’t be tomorrow or the next tomorrow as we might not have electricity. That is what happened in Fabian. We had no electricity for a week. It’s a good thing I like warm cat food. We pulled up water from the tank by lowering a bucket on a rope. Sometimes humans have to work just as hard as cats do to survive. At least, I could lick my fur clean, but what a mess my Mummy and Daddy made of themselves. They worked in mud and water for weeks trying to salvage their business and would come home at night and pour a bucket of cold water over themselves to get clean.
I didn’t mind the darkness and the cold water. But then again, I’m a cat. Cats live through anything. With care, I’ll even live through Colin. I wonder what’s for dinner.
A Mewling Kitten at four months
Feed me, feed me, please.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Chapter Seven - Mr. Anderson's Bus
My Mummy told me a nice story when she came back from the Craft Market today. She took the ferry from Dockyard to St. George, then made connections for a No I bus at Grotto Bay. She knew it was a wonderful bus as soon as she entered. An exotic scent, not unlike pineapple and flowers, filled the air. A sign displayed the driver’s name, M. Anderson, along with words, “Ladies, Stay Fabulous.” If I were a lady, which of course, I’m not, I would like that sign. Maybe one day, there’ll be a sign reading, “Cats are fabulous.” One can’t say, “stay fabulous,” however, to a cat, because we are fabulous and will always be so.
Well, Mummy said Mr. Anderson’s bus was as fabulous as his sign. He had decorated it in Cup Match colours. For those who don’t know, Cup Match is a game of cricket between the East and West ends that is played over a two day period at the end of July, and is one of the most vibrant, team-supported, celebrations in Bermuda.
A brilliant red Somerset baseball cap sat perched over the coin drop, and Driver Anderson removed it every time someone entered the bus. This caused comment from passengers who supported St. George’s, but their navy cap hung over the sign next to the “Stay Fabulous” bit, so you could call it a trade off.
A miniature cricket bat, a shiny silver cup, ribbons of team colours decorated the short table attached to the coin drop. Two large flags, Somerset’s red and royal, St. George’s navy and blue, hung on either side of the table’s railings next to the window. Anyone standing at a bus stop would surely know this was a very special Cup Match bus. Alarmingly, the red showed up in the traveling bus window far sooner than the navy, and why would a bus fly a red flag in the East End, St. George’s territory? It all comes together when one boards the bus.
Bus driver Anderson, took very special care to create the jovial ambiance on his bus. It captured a “ come-into-my-parlour” atmosphere, decorated for the occasion, and not unlike one decorates for Christmas. He warmly greeted new passengers and said especially said nice things to the ladies. I think Mr. Anderson achieves more good will than all the expensive advertising about Bermuda done abroad. Don’t you? A tourist meeting Mr. Anderson, bus-driver-supreme, ambassador for Bermuda, would never forget him.
Magic spread by Mr. Anderson will travel a long way…just like I do in my books, promoting Bermuda’s magic. Today, Mummy signed my Shoo Cat Shoo book for Hannah and Samantha who live in New York and I will live with them now in my book. I also live in Europe and Australia.
Maybe one day, my Mummy will write a book about Mr. Anderson’s Bermuda bus. I’ll be along for the ride. I can see another adventure stirring in my soul.
Well, Mummy said Mr. Anderson’s bus was as fabulous as his sign. He had decorated it in Cup Match colours. For those who don’t know, Cup Match is a game of cricket between the East and West ends that is played over a two day period at the end of July, and is one of the most vibrant, team-supported, celebrations in Bermuda.
A brilliant red Somerset baseball cap sat perched over the coin drop, and Driver Anderson removed it every time someone entered the bus. This caused comment from passengers who supported St. George’s, but their navy cap hung over the sign next to the “Stay Fabulous” bit, so you could call it a trade off.
A miniature cricket bat, a shiny silver cup, ribbons of team colours decorated the short table attached to the coin drop. Two large flags, Somerset’s red and royal, St. George’s navy and blue, hung on either side of the table’s railings next to the window. Anyone standing at a bus stop would surely know this was a very special Cup Match bus. Alarmingly, the red showed up in the traveling bus window far sooner than the navy, and why would a bus fly a red flag in the East End, St. George’s territory? It all comes together when one boards the bus.
Bus driver Anderson, took very special care to create the jovial ambiance on his bus. It captured a “ come-into-my-parlour” atmosphere, decorated for the occasion, and not unlike one decorates for Christmas. He warmly greeted new passengers and said especially said nice things to the ladies. I think Mr. Anderson achieves more good will than all the expensive advertising about Bermuda done abroad. Don’t you? A tourist meeting Mr. Anderson, bus-driver-supreme, ambassador for Bermuda, would never forget him.
Magic spread by Mr. Anderson will travel a long way…just like I do in my books, promoting Bermuda’s magic. Today, Mummy signed my Shoo Cat Shoo book for Hannah and Samantha who live in New York and I will live with them now in my book. I also live in Europe and Australia.
Maybe one day, my Mummy will write a book about Mr. Anderson’s Bermuda bus. I’ll be along for the ride. I can see another adventure stirring in my soul.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Chapter Six: Going to visit Lulu and Max
I am so excited, I could meow. MEOW! MEOW! MEOW!
My first book order came over our new web site. I am going to visit Hannah and her new black and white kitten, called Lulu, and Patrick and his new orange and white kitten, called Max, in my very first adventure book titled Shoo Cat Shoo.
Recently, Hannah’s grandmother, Louise, came into the Craft Market and bought my mistress’s art book for Hannah and Kaley. She said the girls would show other children in their class at school the beautiful scenes of Bermuda. Another of my books, the Road Toad, went to live with Patrick and Jack, so they already know what sort of trouble I get myself into when I start out on an adventure.
If you read my Chapter Two, I bet kittens, Lulu and Max, don’t end up in a cardboard box. And, like myself, this is certainly an adventurous family. It’s obvious, they never wear cardboard boxes over their heads! They share meaningful and exciting experiences with their children. They will always remember their trip to Bermuda on a cruise ship. Their grandmother is very special to me. She wrote nice things about my mistress and that makes me very happy.
Quote:
-- I'm so happy to be the FIRST ORDER, I love your books as much as my grandkids do and I love your art work as well -- I wish you MUCH MUCH success with this new venture.
I will be ordering all of your books… your ART is the best…. thank you again for sharing you (and)your talents with us.
Wasn’t that wonderful? It’s exciting to make new friends, isn’t it? I don’t know if anyone is even reads what I write (hello, anyone there?) as they probably think that as a cat, I am illiterate. My, won’t they be surprised. My mistress is the one who makes all the mistakes with punctuation and grammar. I, for one, know, and can read and write one million words beginning with cat. Cat bird, catnap, cat walk, cat’s paw, cat food, cat food, cat food, cat food…it takes a long time to write that a million times, so you will have to be patient and leave me alone.
My first book order came over our new web site. I am going to visit Hannah and her new black and white kitten, called Lulu, and Patrick and his new orange and white kitten, called Max, in my very first adventure book titled Shoo Cat Shoo.
Recently, Hannah’s grandmother, Louise, came into the Craft Market and bought my mistress’s art book for Hannah and Kaley. She said the girls would show other children in their class at school the beautiful scenes of Bermuda. Another of my books, the Road Toad, went to live with Patrick and Jack, so they already know what sort of trouble I get myself into when I start out on an adventure.
If you read my Chapter Two, I bet kittens, Lulu and Max, don’t end up in a cardboard box. And, like myself, this is certainly an adventurous family. It’s obvious, they never wear cardboard boxes over their heads! They share meaningful and exciting experiences with their children. They will always remember their trip to Bermuda on a cruise ship. Their grandmother is very special to me. She wrote nice things about my mistress and that makes me very happy.
Quote:
-- I'm so happy to be the FIRST ORDER, I love your books as much as my grandkids do and I love your art work as well -- I wish you MUCH MUCH success with this new venture.
I will be ordering all of your books… your ART is the best…. thank you again for sharing you (and)your talents with us.
Wasn’t that wonderful? It’s exciting to make new friends, isn’t it? I don’t know if anyone is even reads what I write (hello, anyone there?) as they probably think that as a cat, I am illiterate. My, won’t they be surprised. My mistress is the one who makes all the mistakes with punctuation and grammar. I, for one, know, and can read and write one million words beginning with cat. Cat bird, catnap, cat walk, cat’s paw, cat food, cat food, cat food, cat food…it takes a long time to write that a million times, so you will have to be patient and leave me alone.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Chapter Five: White or Black? Or 4,000 shades inbetween.
I am a black and white cat. No denying that. Of course, I am more black than white, as black fur covers 80% of my body. But my white parts are lovely. You should feel my tummy. The fur there is long and soft and my Mummy likes to bury her nose in my tummy and tell me how beautiful I am. My paws are white. My chest and chin are white. I have a few white hairs under my nose. As you see, I am a pretty good combination.
All my parts get along just fine. The black parts and the white parts. It’s like Bermuda. There are black people and there are white people. At least that is what they call themselves. Actually, I’ve seen them. No one is black like my black, and no one is white like my white. They are brown, some dark like my crunchy cat food, some light like my canned tuna. You could call them mahogany or weak tea if you like. The white ones are pink, pale ecru, light blush, hot pink (sunburns), toast brown (suntanned), and burnt brown. That’s the colour of scorched toast. There’s a lot of mixing between the white people and the black people and they are producing an amazing variety of coloured offspring. They are quite beautiful. Just like cats. One mummy cat can have orange kittens, tabby kittens, calico kittens, and of course black and white kittens, like me. Mummy humans don’t have that variety, especially orange and calico, but they sure try hard.
My black parts love my white parts and vice versa. They are in this thing together, meaning me. Humans have divided themselves. They point fingers. He does that because he’s white. She doesn’t do that because she’s black. Isn’t it absurd that a person who is the colour of weak tea hates white people so much when it is obvious they are more white than black? I think the labels are all wrong, don’t you? Instead of calling Bermudians whites or blacks, they should start calling each other lemon tea, pink oleanders, burnt toast, egg shell, teak, etc. That would have been a much better classification for the Census Form. “I am weak tea with a slight pink oleander blush.” Don’t you love it?
“I am speckled, like a Hind, with two thousand dark mahogany freckles on an attractive, translucent honey and lemon tea tan skin, a light patch on my bottom, and a pink scalp. How do you classify me?”
Hah! I even know Ronnie’s from St. David’s.
All my parts get along just fine. The black parts and the white parts. It’s like Bermuda. There are black people and there are white people. At least that is what they call themselves. Actually, I’ve seen them. No one is black like my black, and no one is white like my white. They are brown, some dark like my crunchy cat food, some light like my canned tuna. You could call them mahogany or weak tea if you like. The white ones are pink, pale ecru, light blush, hot pink (sunburns), toast brown (suntanned), and burnt brown. That’s the colour of scorched toast. There’s a lot of mixing between the white people and the black people and they are producing an amazing variety of coloured offspring. They are quite beautiful. Just like cats. One mummy cat can have orange kittens, tabby kittens, calico kittens, and of course black and white kittens, like me. Mummy humans don’t have that variety, especially orange and calico, but they sure try hard.
My black parts love my white parts and vice versa. They are in this thing together, meaning me. Humans have divided themselves. They point fingers. He does that because he’s white. She doesn’t do that because she’s black. Isn’t it absurd that a person who is the colour of weak tea hates white people so much when it is obvious they are more white than black? I think the labels are all wrong, don’t you? Instead of calling Bermudians whites or blacks, they should start calling each other lemon tea, pink oleanders, burnt toast, egg shell, teak, etc. That would have been a much better classification for the Census Form. “I am weak tea with a slight pink oleander blush.” Don’t you love it?
“I am speckled, like a Hind, with two thousand dark mahogany freckles on an attractive, translucent honey and lemon tea tan skin, a light patch on my bottom, and a pink scalp. How do you classify me?”
Hah! I even know Ronnie’s from St. David’s.
Chapter Four: Do Cats Go to Heaven?
Do cats go to Heaven? I’m a cat. I’d like to think so.
My round eyes radiate love. My purring expresses love. So surely, if I have so much love to give, God must love me in return. St. Francis loved animals. He must have some with him in Heaven.
I've been talking so much about my early beginnings, so now I am going to tell you about my present. My Mummy met a vet today at the Craft Market where she goes to sign my books. I’m very popular. My Mummy made me a star in my first book, Shoo Cat Shoo, and everyone who owns a tuxedo cat loves my photo on the back cover. They love me.
Well, this vet discussed my condition. It’s very delicate to talk like this, but I must face facts, I am seventeen years old---and that is OLD AGE for a cat.
I have kidney disease: a terrible thing to have for one who is a fussy eater. The clinic advised I eat a special diet. ME? Lover of kitty cat’s version of snuffed coke---crunchy, dry cat food laced with supercharged, blown-up-out-of-your-mind flavours that no fresh food could begin to imitate. Really! It’s better to be fed than dead. Good motto. I made it past the dry food stage and am crunching the diet-induced pellets that look like chicken feed and have not gotten into the wet stage. We all know, if I don’t like it, I won’t eat it; so I either die of starvation, or eat royally and die from kidney failure. Let’s face it, the end is all the same.
That’s how the topic of Heaven came up. This June, at a train station in New Jersey, my Mummy met a young, vivacious Venezuelan woman, who looked like the movie star in Million Dollar Baby, with a smile and teeth that stretched a mile. She’s a stripper. Not the movie star. The Venezuelan. She’s writing a book about stripping. She owns a gray tabby cat called Canine who she calls her ‘BA—BEE.’ “I love my BA-BEE. Ee’s my child. Ee’s my life. Ma’m, do you think cats go the Heaven?” Now, wasn’t that a thoughtful question? My Mummy told her that she hoped so.
When my Mummy told that story to the vet, the vet said, ”All my pets are in Heaven, getting along with each other, waiting for me.” Isn’t that wonderful? That’s why God made such a big universe. There must be galaxies filled with all the animals that once lived on earth. Can you imagine a planet filled with cats of all colours?
The same day, my Mummy met the owners of Porter and Cosmo, two more tuxedo cats, who had a book dedicated in their names. They asked Mummy if she would take me with her when she moved out of Bermuda. She replied that I was “too old to travel.” What they meant, however, is would she take my ashes with her. I hate small places. I don’t want to end up in a jar in some foreign country. Mummy replied that I had a wonderful garden where I sit and contemplate everyday. “No,” she said. “He’s in his garden, and that’s where he will stay.”
That’s what she thinks! I have every intention of living in Heaven.
My round eyes radiate love. My purring expresses love. So surely, if I have so much love to give, God must love me in return. St. Francis loved animals. He must have some with him in Heaven.
I've been talking so much about my early beginnings, so now I am going to tell you about my present. My Mummy met a vet today at the Craft Market where she goes to sign my books. I’m very popular. My Mummy made me a star in my first book, Shoo Cat Shoo, and everyone who owns a tuxedo cat loves my photo on the back cover. They love me.
Well, this vet discussed my condition. It’s very delicate to talk like this, but I must face facts, I am seventeen years old---and that is OLD AGE for a cat.
I have kidney disease: a terrible thing to have for one who is a fussy eater. The clinic advised I eat a special diet. ME? Lover of kitty cat’s version of snuffed coke---crunchy, dry cat food laced with supercharged, blown-up-out-of-your-mind flavours that no fresh food could begin to imitate. Really! It’s better to be fed than dead. Good motto. I made it past the dry food stage and am crunching the diet-induced pellets that look like chicken feed and have not gotten into the wet stage. We all know, if I don’t like it, I won’t eat it; so I either die of starvation, or eat royally and die from kidney failure. Let’s face it, the end is all the same.
That’s how the topic of Heaven came up. This June, at a train station in New Jersey, my Mummy met a young, vivacious Venezuelan woman, who looked like the movie star in Million Dollar Baby, with a smile and teeth that stretched a mile. She’s a stripper. Not the movie star. The Venezuelan. She’s writing a book about stripping. She owns a gray tabby cat called Canine who she calls her ‘BA—BEE.’ “I love my BA-BEE. Ee’s my child. Ee’s my life. Ma’m, do you think cats go the Heaven?” Now, wasn’t that a thoughtful question? My Mummy told her that she hoped so.
When my Mummy told that story to the vet, the vet said, ”All my pets are in Heaven, getting along with each other, waiting for me.” Isn’t that wonderful? That’s why God made such a big universe. There must be galaxies filled with all the animals that once lived on earth. Can you imagine a planet filled with cats of all colours?
The same day, my Mummy met the owners of Porter and Cosmo, two more tuxedo cats, who had a book dedicated in their names. They asked Mummy if she would take me with her when she moved out of Bermuda. She replied that I was “too old to travel.” What they meant, however, is would she take my ashes with her. I hate small places. I don’t want to end up in a jar in some foreign country. Mummy replied that I had a wonderful garden where I sit and contemplate everyday. “No,” she said. “He’s in his garden, and that’s where he will stay.”
That’s what she thinks! I have every intention of living in Heaven.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Chapter Three: Beauty and the Beast
BEAUTY IS ONLY FUR DEEP
My mistress says beauty is only skin deep. Well, I guess you can say beauty is only fur deep with a cat. I once knew a beautiful cat. She was a picture-perfect, pin-up cat. The type of cat that people use as a model to make delicate, porcelain figurines or a stuffed toy kitty cat that babies hug and take to bed.
She had a face like an angel. Heart-shaped, a small button nose with a pink tip, and eyes like enormous moons floating in a sea of smooth, gray silk. A gray and white cat, petite, delicate, and demur to look at, but underneath, she was a seething caldron of hatred and spite. I don’t know what turns a cat evil. It must be like people. Was she mistreated as a baby? Was her mother on drugs? Or is it some genetic disjunction passed on through cat DNA that sets the chromosome for destruction? Destruction of those around her, not her.
Anyway, here I am a baby kitty with my tail in the air, my legs weak and wobbly, and suddenly, I am catapulted across a space by a fistful of sharp claws. I squeal, and this causes everyone to run to my aid as I land on my back with all four legs in the air with a rounded belly held up as tempting as a rump roast fresh from the oven. My belly would not end up between the jaws of that beautiful gray and white cat this time, but there were so many other times, I lost count. I would crawl through a door---SWAT!---I was knocked for nineses. I would peek around a corner---SWAT!---around my box---SWAT! I would hold my breath, and wobble, wobble, wobble, and suddenly---SWAT! I was hit so many times, I could have applied for a job as a baseball.
I thought cats were supposed to love cats. But I guess I was wrong. Do people, because they are people, love other people? I guess not.
Well, I found the most wonderful friend, and in all places, in one whom cats consider an enemy. His jaws were bigger than my body. His teeth bigger than my head. His tongue twice the length of my back. Yet, I could crawl between his front legs, stick my head over the rim of his dinner bowl, and while his jaws and sharp white teeth went crunch, crunch, crunch over my head, and his pink tongue swirled over my ears like the mounting winds of a hurricane, he never touched my head. One misplaced lap of the tongue would have decapitated me. One, large, slipped slurp of Crunchie Munchies Dog Chow would have sucked into his esophagus as fast as Jonah slid into the belly of the whale. Yet, he knew I was there. Brave, little kitty sticking his head under the jaws of a huge, wolf-like dog.
And whenever that beautiful cat went SWAT! My friend, Bombadil, would snap his jaws. He would pull up the black skin rimming his mouth, and show his pink gums that held teeth, white, shinning and sharp, like the spikes of a drawbridge, and he would growl. You know, that beautiful cat who hated me so, almost died of freight. It took a long time, but eventually, she did.
My mistress says beauty is only skin deep. Well, I guess you can say beauty is only fur deep with a cat. I once knew a beautiful cat. She was a picture-perfect, pin-up cat. The type of cat that people use as a model to make delicate, porcelain figurines or a stuffed toy kitty cat that babies hug and take to bed.
She had a face like an angel. Heart-shaped, a small button nose with a pink tip, and eyes like enormous moons floating in a sea of smooth, gray silk. A gray and white cat, petite, delicate, and demur to look at, but underneath, she was a seething caldron of hatred and spite. I don’t know what turns a cat evil. It must be like people. Was she mistreated as a baby? Was her mother on drugs? Or is it some genetic disjunction passed on through cat DNA that sets the chromosome for destruction? Destruction of those around her, not her.
Anyway, here I am a baby kitty with my tail in the air, my legs weak and wobbly, and suddenly, I am catapulted across a space by a fistful of sharp claws. I squeal, and this causes everyone to run to my aid as I land on my back with all four legs in the air with a rounded belly held up as tempting as a rump roast fresh from the oven. My belly would not end up between the jaws of that beautiful gray and white cat this time, but there were so many other times, I lost count. I would crawl through a door---SWAT!---I was knocked for nineses. I would peek around a corner---SWAT!---around my box---SWAT! I would hold my breath, and wobble, wobble, wobble, and suddenly---SWAT! I was hit so many times, I could have applied for a job as a baseball.
I thought cats were supposed to love cats. But I guess I was wrong. Do people, because they are people, love other people? I guess not.
Well, I found the most wonderful friend, and in all places, in one whom cats consider an enemy. His jaws were bigger than my body. His teeth bigger than my head. His tongue twice the length of my back. Yet, I could crawl between his front legs, stick my head over the rim of his dinner bowl, and while his jaws and sharp white teeth went crunch, crunch, crunch over my head, and his pink tongue swirled over my ears like the mounting winds of a hurricane, he never touched my head. One misplaced lap of the tongue would have decapitated me. One, large, slipped slurp of Crunchie Munchies Dog Chow would have sucked into his esophagus as fast as Jonah slid into the belly of the whale. Yet, he knew I was there. Brave, little kitty sticking his head under the jaws of a huge, wolf-like dog.
And whenever that beautiful cat went SWAT! My friend, Bombadil, would snap his jaws. He would pull up the black skin rimming his mouth, and show his pink gums that held teeth, white, shinning and sharp, like the spikes of a drawbridge, and he would growl. You know, that beautiful cat who hated me so, almost died of freight. It took a long time, but eventually, she did.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Chapter Two : The Lamb and The Box
That first night, I graduated out of the red baseball cap and found myself in a hastily contrived breadbasket alongside a stuffed toy named Lammie --a lamb who was ten times my size, who was fluffy and pure white, and who had two black eyes, a button nose, and a soft underbelly, suspending four long legs. This was fine for me. I fit perfectly into the cavity between his legs. I later discovered the lamb was part of a Christmas Manger for the Christ Child. I knew I had good company. The lamb didn’t have wings, but somehow, I knew Lammie was my guardian angel.
The woman said I’d think the toy was my own cat mother because of the soft fur. Really? She was wrong, you know. I lost my mother when I found myself in that red baseball cap, and whether the woman liked it or not, I was hers. All hers.
The cooing started again in the morning when she picked me up. I was so small, I fit on the top of her hand, and when she put me on the floor, I wobbled. I wobbled with my tail straight up and my nose pointing toward the dish with milk. There were more oooohs and ahhhhs when she realized I could lap milk by myself. She doesn’t know how self sufficient we cats can be. You wouldn’t see a baby on the floor at my age, would you? "Baby, get off the floor. Baby, stop licking the cat dish!"
Lammie and the breadbasket were my whole world, for all I thought about was sleeping and eating. Tell you the truth, little has changed in seventeen years. When it became obvious that I was becoming more adventurous and would possibly climb out of my basket at night, the basket was placed in a huge cardboard box, and the box was placed by my new Mummy’s bed. It was like being in the bottom of an elevator shaft. These tall straight brown walls rose up to infinity. But I devised a game. I would leap from the basket, grab onto the wall with my claws and slide all the way to the bottom. Thummmpp! Scratccchhhh! Thump! Scratccccccchhhhhh! This made a wonderful sound at 2:00a.m. in the morning when accompanied by mewing, so the tempo increased into Mew! Mew! Thump! Scratchhhhhhhh! Mew! Mew! Thump! Scratch! And then, suddenly, Mummy’s husband would pick me up.
My Mummy said growing up in a box was good for me, because it would teach me to appreciate the world more when I was allowed to explore. She said a lot of people grow up in boxes like mine, but they never get out. They go through life only seeing the sides of their box. They never appreciate the wondrous world outside of their own confines, and sadly, carry their boxes filled with limitations, narrow mindness, and tunnel vision with them even when they travel. Isn’t that absurd? All those humans walking around with brown cardboard boxes over their heads. I am so glad cats don’t wear boxes.
But you know, my box had another side. Not to keep me in, but to keep someone out. That someone was another cat. The meanest, cleverest, most spiteful cat anyone would want to meet. "She’ll eat you, that’s what she’ll do," my Mummy said. "She’ll think you are nothing more than a rat."
Wow! I was growing up fast. I had a guardian angel, and now I had an evil presence---a cat!
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