Moosings of Moo- The hooman with the hands of cold.
Moosings of Moo
The hooman with the hands of cold.
Following my terrible weekend, I had a terrible Monday. Not surprising given the state of my current mooniverse and all that has recently changed, but this really has come as the crappy cheap catnip on top of the unravelling scratching post of my life.
I was catnapped in the portable prison, lured with treats and then placed into the very same portable holding cell that took me from the warmth of my litter and brought me to my destiny here as ruler of this Queendom.
It amazes me even still that I cannot get a chariot pulled by whipped mice, and yet the hoomans had a custom-built holding container made just to contain my might. The hypocrisy courted routinely by my subjects is not lost on me, merely observed with amused detatchment and a superior sense of knowing such things are trivial and far below my concern at this moment.
What followed was an extremely uncomfortable ride in the Grandfeeder’s moochine, where I refused to sit in case the beast decided to launch an attack during the duration of the saga. Its purr was loud, far louder than mine or Bae’s moochine, and every time it lurched left or right, I ended up thwacking my head on the bars of the portable prison several times.
I am currently researching how to harm such a formidable foe, perhaps by inserting a claw into one of its rubbery paws and trying to incapacitate it. I simply cannot abide by the torment I have suffered, and vengeance against the hulking black moochine is now high on my list of priorities.
On arrival at the destination my fuzzy stomach filled with dread. It was the clinical shrine of the hooman with the hands of cold.
The memory of his icy touch, the chemical smell of uncarpeted floors and hard metal countertops with no give for loafing, sleeping, or grooming was enough to make me taste last night’s hairball over again. It is a godless place… unfortunately though, that does not make it a dog less place.
The drooling monster in the waiting room was small, a youngling of his breed in monochrome colours, perhaps a map of the dichotomy of good and evil, cats and dogs, right and wrong. It has not escaped the notice of the feline community that while cats were once worshipped by the Egyptians as gods, that the word dog in its essence is the antithesis of God. It is not clear which genius named the species, but we have our suspicions it may have been an ancient succedent of our own race.
I sat within the confines of my prison turned protective cage, shaking as I watched the small dog clamber all over his owner for love and approval. It was disgusting, and my shaking a mere ruse to make the small puppy believe I was no threat. If he had happened to come closer, I would have made an ample swipe through the bars for his eyeballs and lolling tongue.
I watched on for what seemed like hours as he willingly gave his love away with no call for ritual sacrifice or even the idea that affection from the fluffiest of us must be earned, not simply given away.
The wait was torturous, the beady eyes of that sappy psychopath dog bearing into mine and threatening drool, dog stink, and utter and complete humiliation as he would attempt to try and love me, of all things.
You can imagine my disgusted relief then when they called my name, even though the title was not my full one. There was no fanfare for my royal highness-ness, nor was there a medal of honour for my bravery with the dopey mutt in the waiting room.
Regardless, I let this go as dread clutched at me, understanding more than ever how to prioritise my foes. The dog might have been a worthy arch nemesis, but at that moment I had far bigger toona fish to fry.
The portable prison was then lifted and carried into the dragon’s den so to speak. There he lay in wait, the hooman with the hands of cold, in his ugly green uniform which even by hooman standards is an utter travesty. Sometimes I have dreams about that uniform, about the tiny headed one wearing it as she removes me permanently from both Bae and my Queendom as she has come to realise my true intent. This though, I cannot speak of further, for the memory of this visit is traumatic enough on its own.
The hooman with the hands of cold lifted me from the protective fortress of my cell, his hands chilling my skin through the luscious thickness of my stunning coat and placed me down upon the shiny mirror table, so I might be forced to witness my own assault at the hands of this hooman icicle. He smelled of chemicals, and not the good plastic kind that calls me to devour plastic bag after plastic bag, but the kind which clings to your fur and makes grooming a pungent nightmare.
He probed my stomach, my tail, my ears, and most humiliating of all my beauteous behind as the tiny headed one looked on and only laughed at my attempts to protest. His cold hands left rivers of shivering gooseflesh in their wake, not to mention the distinct feeling that I had been victim of being bathed in actual water of all things.
Hissing, yowling, and attempting to cut the cold handed one to ribbons with my claws have been as of yet unsuccessful, almost as if he is used to this kind of abuse and has developed a certain kind of resilience.
After being jabbed in the neck by a tiny pointy stick, and having my teeth examined as if I were some kind of rabid dog, (why does he need to check my teeth anyway? After all, it’s not like I ever actually grace the world with my smile…) I was finally released from the cold hands of the hooman who I have come to hate the most and seconded safely back in my portable prison.
For this, amazingly, I was most grateful.
The visit was traumatic, as they always are, and I know I will not sleep tonight for the memory of those cold hands… the smell of chemicals… or the way in which my own eyes widened in alarm at his probing fingers and cold metal instruments.
Oh well… I guess I have no other choice but to make my discomfort known by running up and down the stairs singing the songs of my people at 3am.
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