a diary of the devil and a banana split

Dear Luther.

And regards to the devil.

People tell you to “sink your teeth in,” don’t they? To a project, I imagine. A venture. An adventure. To perform energetically. To do so with enthusiasm and vigour. To be at your best, your hundredest most hundred percent. Sink so deep that you’re practically holding the thing with your gums. That’s what people say, so I hear.

But I’m not people. I don’t speak figuratively, in analogy or metaphor.

I don’t speak at all, actually. I’m a cat. If I did talk, I’d be talking in meta-PAWS and I’d also be getting painfully dissected by curious human scientists right about now, as my name and furry face make newspaper and Buzzfeed headlines.

Alas, I don’t talk. I keep a diary, sure, but that’s just between me and me. Luther. A devilishly named cat (no motive behind that, I assure you).

I’m… an age. It differs, depending on who you ask. Not that it matters. Time doesn’t really impact one's ability to lounge around in various positions. It hinders higher surfaces occasionally, but that’s nothing that cannot be remedied by a wide-eyed yelp at the closest furless human whose infinite devotion for me surges with everything I do.

I look helpless. That’s my trade secret. I’ve half a tail to really emphasise my vulnerability.

It was a staged accident of course - not that the humans know this - entirely plotted, planned and performed purrfectly, if I do say so myself.

A car drove down the busy mile-long road outlining my home, as cars do. I was pretty confident that that part of my plan would run smoothly (or not, as it was so intended). They don’t run on a specific schedule, but they’re pretty regular, so that was no worry.

Nor was my ability to survive it. I can fall at the acceleration of gravity (the youngest of my owners studies Astrophysics. I listen in occasionally when I’m licking my testicles) from up to 32 storeys high with barely a muffle of my fur. That’s a final free fall speed of 101.81mph at the moment before hitting the ground. I can handle a 30mph speed limit.

The issue was, as always, the humans. I needed to time it so that my owner was in full view of the incident, and I did. I did not, however, anticipate that the youngest (who was at her very youngest at the time. Worse at walking and communicating than me) would be in her pram, in full view, bearing witness to an arbitrary car colliding with me at the same moment that I decided to “spontaneously” cross the road.

She watched it strike me. She watched it screech to a stop. She watched the driver get out. She watched her mom cry out. She watched me shoot out of the road, up the drive, past her pushchair and into the house with my tail, severed straight down the middle like a banana split - but not with strawberry sauce oozing out.

Naturally - and evidently - I was fine. All as planned, minus the mental scarring of the child. It toughened her up though, built her character and, sticking to such an endearing theme, I’d thrown in a couple of situations throughout the following 5 years in which I’d sink my bare teeth into her buttcheeks sporadically and without warning. They practically named me Lucifer's second in command - this is all a part of my process.

Anyway, biting is just like writing, isn’t it? Leaving your mark somewhere, to tell the details of a story to those not there? And isn’t a story just a scar? A scar on your mind, in your soul, branded onto your heart, permanent and a part of you, no matter how pretty or unsightly. T he devil is also a poet.

Maybe it was him who so profoundly keeps saying to sink your teeth into life. So I did. I left a little me on her.

What I didn’t expect was that she’d leave a little her on me right back. The kid and the other two I live with they… they just kind of… they became sort of… they grew on me. Like fleas, I guess. A perpetual irritant and a part of my existential composition.

I went missing for two weeks a couple of years back.

Hopped in the window cleaner’s open van without anybody seeing and ended up far from home. It snowed heavier than I’ve ever seen before.

Thought I was gonner, truly I did. With every day that passed, I was fed by neighbours and passing strangers and the odd, accessible bin. But that was just survival, not living. They were nice people, sure. But not my people. I didn’t think I’d ever see my home again.

But my owner, the man, the kid’s dad, he searched for me, day and night, miles and miles, up and down and here, there, everywhere, trudging through the snow with no idea where to go, just blindly believing he’d find me.

And he found me.

As much as I’d like to credit myself for such a slyly devised plan - this was all an accident. Not a lure, nor a test, not even a trial to earn my respect. This was a showcase of just how loved I am, as I am, fleas and all. Not forced, just family.

When they tell you to sink your teeth in, take a bite, swallow life whole - they forget to mention that, like all good meals, do so from your home. There really is no place like it.

I gave up a tail to ensure lifelong servitude but, as it turns out, I think they’d have done everything for me anyway. Not because they had to, but because they want to. It’s not a service when it’s an act of love.

So. With that in mind, I’m signing off to go and swipe a frog from the neighbour’s pond as a symbol of my requited adoration for my two-legged cohabitants.

I hear they scream really loud. I think my owners - my family - will just love that.

Love, the cat.

And regards from the devil.