Princess

Had I been asleep, I would have been woken rather abruptly by the sound of high heels clomping down the pavement. The owner of the heels, a short, stumpy woman, is wearing a pink taffeta dress that accentuates her shortness. Human fashion always baffles me. In fact, it’s one of the things Clara and I bond over. Come evening, I regale her with all the various outfits I witness throughout the course of the day, much to her amusement.

“Tragic,” I mutter to myself, once she is out of earshot. Living at 21 Crevet Street in a two-storey terrace has proved to be a great privilege, as it comes with a front porch. I prop myself on the chair with the blue velvet cushion and people watch. It brings me great pleasure when they notice me watching them. They fuss and coo over me, while I pretend not to notice.

It isn’t lost on me that I’m an especially beautiful cat. I’m not being arrogant when I say I’m the most beautiful cat in my neighborhood. Pretty things know they’re pretty. The polite thing to do is pretend that one doesn’t know, but that’s mostly a human characteristic. Cats become aware of what we look like based on how humans treat us. Plus Clara constantly tells me how beautiful I am. She named me Princess because I look the part.

Whenever people come around, Clara makes the same joke. That I have better eyeliner than her, which always gets laughs despite it not being amusing. Because my pale blue eyes have a black wing framing each rim and my white coat is healthy and spotless. The odd thing is, people tell Clara how beautiful I am as though it’s somehow her doing. When really, the compliment ought to go to me.

But I do love Clara. I clocked on fairly young, when I was merely a six week old kitten, that I needed her for food, water, shelter and affection. She spoils me rotten. I have not one, but three pink rhinestone encrusted collars currently on rotation. But as time went on, that dependency turned into something more. Love. And now, I protect her far more than she protects me. And she needs me even more than I need her. She doesn't realize that of course. She has a loving heart, Clara, but she’s not very bright.

Her taste in lovers concerns me. She invites over the strangest string of men when she’s been drinking wine, which she calls ‘mummy’s catnip,’ (I’ve never found that funny.) I hear their conversations, or lack thereof. Then, she cries to me when they inevitably disappear!

“You can’t be that surprised he hasn’t called, can you? I mean, you did let him sleep over on the first date,” I say, tactfully, while she sobs into my fur.

Although Clara is successful, attractive, kind and put together, she seems attracted to rough, slightly scruffy, proletariat types. The latest is a man named Jake. A car mechanic who waltzes in straight from work, auto grease on his fingers and gasoline stains on his overalls.

I wish to make it clear that I’m not a classist, I once had a brief dalliance with a stray tabby named Greg. There was something about the way his eyes twinkled when he saw me. The fact I was so far out of his league excited me. But aside the obvious flea risk, I never entertained it seriously as I knew there wasn’t a future. I knew he couldn’t possibly provide the lifestyle that Clara and I were accustomed to. If only Clara was as intelligent as I was.

I was polite when I was first introduced to Jake.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, sitting with a straight back and curling my tail daintily around my two front feet.

He looked straight at Clara and said, “oh I can’t get too close - I’m deathly allergic. Nice cat, though I’m not really a cat person.”

He tiptoed around me like I was a bomb that could explode at any moment. Not a cat person? Can’t get too close? As if he’d have the chance! I wasn’t a nice cat. I was a gorgeous cat with silk-like fur and the perfect number of whiskers.

That was his first red flag, but I was big enough to put myself aside for Clara’s sake. I knew I’d always come first for Clara. So I kept my thoughts on Jake to myself (a few sly digs at his expense may have slipped out).

Lately, he’s been coming over more frequently. And Clara has been vacuuming beforehand.

She inspects the carpet for my fur, collecting long white strands and binning them.

A few hours ago, I approached her legs and you wouldn’t believe what she said.

“I can’t pick you up Princess, Jake’s coming over and your fur will get all over me and make him sick!”

“I shouldn’t be punished for his misfortune,” I responded.

“I’ll pat you once he’s gone. He could get really sick, you know.”

Whenever he stayed the night, I was shafted from the bed to the downstairs couch.

“Is he staying tonight?” I ask, when I notice her vacuuming. She doesn’t even hear me over the sound of the vacuum! The situation is getting out of hand.

I had to take matters into my own hands. So tonight, I shall sneak into the bedroom and jump up to the bed. While he’s sleeping, I’ll creep right up to his face. And although I can’t think of anything worse than being close to his ghastly breath and stubbly jaw, I’ll arrange myself on top of his face. Then we will see how deathly allergic he really is.