Change is on the cold north wind that has seemingly come to stay in this part of the Great British nation for which my breed is so named, and I find myself at the heart of it, as ever watchful over bae.
This latest development has been upsetting to say the least, and left me sat upon many windowsills, watching as he courts another woman from afar.
I had thought that his relationship with the tiny headed one was the biggest threat to our time together, but now I see that there are even bigger threats on the horizon.
He has a new pet. With sleek red skin, shiny red eyes that blaze unhindered into the night, four spinning paws and whiskers that are so advanced they clear rain from their path as the two of them set off on countless adventures.
It purrs, this Moochine, a deep thunderous roar at times, and a small kitten like exhale at others, his hands caressing her, stroking her, from the inside, as he fiddles with dials and handles the large turning circle that lies at the very heart of her voluptuous curves, telling her where his desires will take them.
He is tentative with my replacement, and I have watched him from the window, grooming her and making sure she looks her best. He coats her in suds, uses special rags and sponges to keep her clean. I wonder why it is that he loves this so, when with me he would not have to so much as lift a finger to keep me groomed. Perhaps, I think, he doesn’t like the fact I’m an independent woman. Perhaps… perhaps he wants to be the hero, to be relied on and needed. Maybe I’m just not helpless enough.
Speaking of helpless, I wondered for a while how the tiny headed Hooman must feel, if she was jealous, but it seems that the greatest humiliation of all this is that she’s readily accepted their relationship. She joins them on trips, where they head out to secret destinations beyond the domain of my castle, beyond the reach of my Turdis. They sit, side by side, going on countless adventures with his newly beloved pet, leaving me to cuddle up upon a mere five blankets with my food bowls only two thirds full. I’m practically, for all intents and purposes, a stray.
It is a travesty, so much so that on the day he received the adoption confirmation of what I’m calling the Moochine, for the fact that this cold heartless bitch has seemingly replaced me in his eyes, I tried to destroy the letter, tried to dispose of the evidence. I couldn’t be sure which one as Hoomans stupidly package everything to make it unidentifiable from the outside, so I dutifully went to work destroying mail for weeks in an effort to keep him within the grasp of my besotted toebeans. Unfortunately, he saw this not as an act of love, but of sabotage, and subsequently did not stroke my ears for an entire twenty minutes.
He can be so cruel.
Anyway, I sit now, staring at him as she emits purrs beyond the glass of the windowpane on which my nose is pressed, my sighs fogging the glass in the hope that he will notice me, that he will know to whom he truly belongs. I am fluffy, and surely, that should be enough?
But no, instead he chooses a partially bald Hooman who is the landscape upon which chest mountains have decided to erect themselves, and a cold hard mistress of little forgiveness.
I wonder, perhaps, if I might get a Moochine of my own, if I might take destiny into my own paws. While of course I do not approve of Bae’s relationship with the shiny red one, I have seen his chick run, seen her growl, and seen her pounce forward at great speed. I think, that given the chance, and my very own allegiant Moochine, that I would be able to flatten the tiny headed one without the acquisition of thumbs. Perhaps then, I must watch, and keep my eyes primed for information about how I may get my very own.
Is this the solution I’ve been looking for all along?
Only time will tell.