Diary of the Best Cat in all of existence, AKA Queen Harlington the first and only
Monday 25 July
Happy day! My owners have returned (after two days absence! shocking! I was fed by the tall one and had no suppertime treats!) and they smell very exciting! They do seem to be running around a bit though, and Mr Owner put me in a strange pen-thing and I'm sure I caught a whiff of my most favourite food of all time somewhere in the shopping. I gave him my best WTF look but he put me on the internet anyway. Sometimes think I spend more time on the internet than sleeping, but hear this is the modern condition, inescapable, etc.
ETA They have washed all the smells off. Again! I tell them and tell them I prefer the smell, and can help keep noses clean if needed. Owners are idiots.
Tuesday 26 July
Owners got out cat carrier but neglected to ruin catflap. Hahahaha I am free and there will be no car of horrroooorrrr.
Later: The horror has arrived. Apparently it's name isn't Conrad, although Mrs Owner is calling it Kitten Kurtz which makes a certain sense. One glance is enough to tell me he has a heart of utter darkness. The way he sits in his pen. The way he boinks his head against things. The way he keeps falling over his own tail. This is an insult to all decency.
Although on the bright side, Mrs Owner has finally got me some of the delicious meat yoghurt. I always love the look of disgust on her face as she feeds me it. Cold comfort, though under the circumstances, as the mini horrorbeast was being - I kid you not - waved at me as I ate. Do they really think I am that easily pacified? Om. Nom. Meat yoghurt.
Evening: Mrs Owner has brought what seems like everyone who has every fed me to visit, got me drunk on nip and then offered snacks with a side helping of kitten. Am mortified. Am furious. Am nomnomnomnom.
Wednesday 27 July
Mr Owner has named othercat. My life is basically over. Owners keep discussing other pets, which are kept in balls, fed to professors and made to fight in gyms. Am considering reporting them for these and many other indignities.
Nip, meat yoghurt, strokes and excessive amounts of ribbon play are not enough to cool my fury, Mrs Owner!
The small monster comes too close and oh I hiss like a snake. But he just looks at me like a little blank slate. Didn't his mother teach him any manners? No, Mrs Owner, I don't care that Dribble has been raised by humans.
I can't believe I just said its name. Must wash mouth in meat yoghurt immediately. Owner!
Thursday 28 July
It is unbelievable. Scrubble has sat on my chair, invaded my verandah, and sniffed my ... oh I cannot even bring myself to say it. Had to go and have a swearing match with the Great Grey Idiot* to raise my spirits.
My house is sullied. I cannot bear to return. Instead I retreat to the filthiest corner of the garden shed and demand Mrs Owner come to me. With meat yoghurt. No meat yoghurt in shed. *sigh* Very well, I will come in, and look at him, briefly, if this is accompanied by fuss, reassurance, nip, meat yoghurt and the whole shebang stops exactly when I want it.
God, Mrs Owner. Stop calling me a brave girl. Don't you recognise the white hot fury of a kitten inconvenienced? Must I pretend to bite your hand again, for emphasis? And get that thing away from me. Muddle, begone!!! SSsssss!!
Later. The Black Foolcat** cheerfully wanders into the shed for a sniffaround. I exhale, oh so gently, and he is trapped behind the wall of my fury. For hours, potentially. Mrs Owner comes in and we share a laugh as he streaks out of the shed, the garden and our lives.
Why can't all black cats be banished so expediently?
Friday 29 July
This is getting wearing. I feel like I am trapped in a recurring nightmare. I wake up, and then follow my usual routine of paying Mrs Owner flattering attentions until she gets up and prepares my breakfast.
Then Mr Owner lets Miggle out of his pen. Moggle goes bananas. I retreat to shed. Mrs Owner follows me. All I want is peace so that I can hear exactly how much fun Maggle is having. But she insists on playing me Radio 6. Shaun Keaveny, STFU with your middle-aged shout outs ooh I'm in the shed potting on my chillis, they're going to be shaped like willies and not at all trying to mollify my cat oh no, Mrs Owner, you're not transparent at all. Oooh, I could bite her.
Bitey bitey bite bite tickle on the tummy and paws and claws. Aaaargh Mrs Owner turned it into a game again oh no the humiliation I will be tiny and hide.
Saturday 30 July
I cannot forget that the speck is smaller than me, and that can never, ever be forgiven. Last night's party ended - again! - with me being presented the little monster in front of guests, many of whom have fed me, many of whom have been friends for years.
Everything smells of him. It's a funny smell, like caramel and chamomile, with an undertow of catnip, and a hint of meat yoghurt. Because although he's not bothered about catnip, nor interested in meat yoghurt, where I show an interest, he does, so he got covered in catnip and daubed with meat yoghurt during a difficult bit of treating.
Sunday 31 July
Blissful day! The speck was locked away and I was able to roam freely all day. I spent every moment of it asleep on the bed, and at no point went to the door to check up on Dongle.
Owners returned irritable and snappish.
Should have spent the day on the bed with me, human fools!
Monday 1 August
Sulking in shed was supposed to reach epic proportions today. But reckoned without Mrs Owner and her annoying radio. The shed has been tidied, filled with stinky tomatoes and chilli peppers, my resting places in it have been made extra comfy and cosy and a water bowl has been added so I don't have to go looking for a drink. She even left lots of dirt everywhere, just like I like it.
This is just getting wearing. Leave me to my bitter tears and fury, Mrs Owner!
Oh, OK then. We can do a bit of messing around with ribbons.
But there will be complaints! Long, complicated complaints, with many, many footnotes and endnotes about the absolute unacceptability of this situation.
* Across the road neighbour cat and a bit of a klutz. Famed for exiting our greenhouse when startled through a pane of glass.
** Handsome young black wandering tom, nicknamed Tom Daley. Can be found on occasion singing the song of his people face to face with the Great Grey Idiot.
I'd give you his diary, but it mostly consists of the word wow!!!! interspersed with purring.