Moosings of Moo:
Reign of The Tiny Hooman
This weekend was… a disaster. A ceremony the likes I have never witnessed was thrown and I was cast aside by my own subjects in the process. They call it, a baby shower, but I know that what it really means is that they are preparing for the coronation of a new ruler. I should have known this day would come, where my apple shaped head and fuzzy backside were no longer cute enough to keep their fleeting attention, and yet I was not prepared.
The entire event took hours, with many gifts, surprises, good humour and attention that was stolen from me and given instead to the tiny hooman who was not even present.
I mean, they had a feast, with the good ham for heaven’s sake.
They had sausages, and there was laughter, there was laughter at my expense as I refused to take part in the ridiculous charade.
I stropped and pouted until I was eventually offered some of the fine ham. However, the presentation of a tiny morsel rather than a thick slice made the gesture clear as merely appeasement in light of my upcoming usurper’s birth, and so I chewed up the meat before spitting it out on the kitchen floor and walking away, leaving them with the clean-up.
A salty protest indeed.
I will not go quietly into this good night.
I will not be silenced by the squalling wails of a pink squishy thumb peasant who cannot even use a litter box.
There were curly ribbons, and rustling plastics, as well as sticky tape, these things which are so precious to me, which once were presented to me on the eve of my own rise to power, but now seem to be mocking me from afar with their crinkling sheen.
If this is not bad enough, Bae has deserted my Queendom to chase another feline Queen, a subject which has left me so devastated I have only been able to serenade the landing plains for a few minutes before descending into silent despair. The lands mourn for you Bae, and your return will bring with it pain and punishment for such a heinous betrayal. I may never forgive you, but that of course depends on how much attention you are willing to bargain in exchange for your pardon.
If the celebration of my usurper was not bad enough, the hoomans thought to mock me further by bringing stuffed and enlarged mice in stupid clothes. I have known they are fans of the mouse in red breeches for a while, but I did not think to worry that they would bribe the tiny hooman with his soft ears and gormless smile.
Is the child not called Leo? Does that not mean Lion… is he not supposed to be worshipped in the image of the feline? I have thought it was out of respect to me… but now I fear I was mistaken.
Hoomans… strange perplexing creatures with no consistency, no class, and very few ambitions for their thumbs beyond the mundane.
And yet… it seems the tiny one will be my undoing.
Fluffy blankets, toys, beauteous garments with loud metal poppers that glisten like jewels. Even the old wrinkled one was present, even she who cannot hear and needs thick glass to see left her nest and came to celebrate the imminent arrival of the tiny one.
Tiny hoomans are not even cute, let’s be clear, they are pink and wet and don’t even have tails.
Considering this, I am left with little choice but to attempt to defend my throne by any means necessary. I have stood by and watched the flesh mound of my incoming demise grow and swell for far too long without preparing for the possibility of mutiny. I suppose I have been naïve, but I had hoped to find an alliance with the tiny hooman, a bargain of some sorts where photos of us both and adorable interactions would bring us both notoriety and favour in their hearts.
But now… now I see how it will be.
He shall worship the overly joyous mice… and the tiny headed one has gifted him fishes that sing and glow as further insult to my might. I see now where I stand, I see that he has been put in line with the prey of the feline, rather than the feline itself.
And so, I will adjust accordingly.
I must act quickly, perhaps pooping around the house and setting him up to take the fall. Or sitting on his face and smothering him before he might become thumb-abled enough to be a real threat. Perhaps I will poke him with my toebeans and make him cry so the hoomans might contemplate sending him back to the litter from which he came, or at least gagging him so he may not decree any laws that might rob me of my throne.
I know this might seem drastic, that you might be thinking we should share the power. But I will not, for it can be seen only as a sign of weakness.
There can only be one true Queen… one true centre of attention and love, and it is, as it has always been, my destiny to keep my hold on the crown of this domain by any means necessary.