The Lament of the Suffering Misbegotten One | Previous Challenge Entry

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TITLE: The Lament of the Suffering Misbegotten One | Previous Challenge Entry
By Catrina Bradley
09/11/14
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It happened again today, and frankly, this cat has lost her cool. For the first time in all the lives I've survived, I'm sincerely considering running away.

The morning started on a sour note. My slumber was rudely disturbed by a
thumpthumpthumpthumping, somewhat similar to the sound of that ridiculous puppy scratchscratchscratching its incessant itch, except somehow insensified.

What is it they call the little beast? Jingo? HSsssst. An utterly silly name, but then it is an utterly undignified creature. Running in circles, leaping about like a lunatic, and yapping at every sound ... and that scratching! I have no idea why My Peoples tolerate the witless scoundrel. Not only that, they actually favor it over me, Queenie, their beloved feline.

For seven lives, my silky coat was enough to satisfy their desire to stroke and soothe, and my purrs to settle and soothe their frazzled nerves. Seven lives of ruling home, hearth, and hearts. Now, this usurper ... this Jingo sssssteals all the snuggles and sugar. And I, who seldom cause a ruckus (at least not since those long past cutsie kitten days), am castigated for this nebulous newcomer's hijinks and shenanigans. Hsssss.

When the still of this morning's sunrise was shattered by the drumbeat of doggy scratching, I surrendered slumber to curiosity and slitted my eyes open. I spotted the troublemaker--on the family's sedan, of all places. Oh for the love of Peoples.

I could guess what My Peoples would surmise when they saw pawprints on the car: Bad Queenie. Not once would they consider the possibility that the mischievous mongrel with the puppy dog eyes might be to blame. And I shuddered at of the possibility of scratches on the lustery paint.

My catflexes kicked in and I skittered from my sleep-nest. Forgoing my standard 17-second stretching exercises, I sprang to the scene of the action--fur, tail, and ears at full attention.

"MYyeeeerowwwwwrrr! Dyowwwn! Sscraaaam! You sstupid dog! Ssscaaat!"

My scolding was successful. The silly sot scampered across the car and tumbled to the ground with a squeal. Clumsy cur couldn't even land on its feet. SKkkkhhhhhhh.

I, knowing My Peoples would assume that I, Queenie, was the prime suspect, decided to exact due punishment on the true guilty party for once. I pounced on the floundering fuzzball, claws at full extension, and was poised to strike when I heard the house door slam open. In my exuberance, I had forgotten the early hour and the potential decibel level of my angry yowls.

I froze, knowing what I'd hear next, and I was right. My Man People's angry voice, shouting my name. Again.

I skedaddled like a cat out of a dogfight, and I've been sulking here in my secret place ever since. This is no life for a Queenie. I deserve more respect. I'd run away right now if I weren't so hungry. So, right after supper then. And maybe some pettings. And lapsittings. And a treat. Oh, and a nap in the sun. And a snack. Then I'm history. I've only got two of my nine lives left, and I don't want to waste them playing second fiddle to a stupid dog.

I hear My Peoples calling me for supper. So tomorrow it is. Tomorrow I'll decide when to run way. After I sleep on it.

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