Moosings of Moo- The Moosurper

Moosings of Moo- The Moosurper

I have had an extremely bad weekend. Not just bad, but Bae abandonment level bad.

The tiniest headed hooman finally made his appearance within the walls of my queendom. I knew it was imminent ever since the fanfare of his overly dramatized and drawn out birth and have been awaiting it with dread. The preparations being made far outweighed those made on my arrival here, with the Grandfeeder’s bedroom being cleared of laundry, and a contraption that smelled of milk and fire being given priority in the kitchen.

I watched on in horror as a chariot of epic majesty was wheeled in right through the front door, only infuriating me further.

I have been protest pooping in the kitchen for months in an attempt to procure a chariot pulled by whipped mice and driven by yours truly, but as of yet I have been cruelly denied by the hoomans. This is almost as bad as when they feed me only enough food so that, after several mouthfuls, I can see the bottom of my bowl. I am practically starving.

I decided to perch upon the top of my kitty keep, looking down upon the tiniest headed hooman. He thought he was so cool coming in on four wheels with fancy linens to cocoon his tiny headedness, but I once again have been forced to rise higher, and so higher I have risen.

It would seem that the rumours are true, tiniest headed hoomans scream like banshee, uncivilised and frothing at the mouth for nothing more spectacular than some white powder rubbish which makes an utter mockery of milk. There is no creamy deliciousness here, only sterile façade and disgustingly watered-down imitation. It is not only hideously made, but also served warm, like vomit, or poo.

I can only think that this small loaf-sized hooman is training himself to live on the most meagre, disgusting sustenance, so he might begin warrior training at the earliest convenience. I am no fool, no being would willingly drink such swill. Especially when tuna fish exists and is only a thumbed peasant with a can opener away.

After watching the tiniest headed one with a scrutinous eye, I found myself envying the way the hoomans coo over him, the way they hold him and rock him and feed him. This is insanity, for if they so much as laid a single finger on me I would surely scratch their eyes out, and yet this loneliness I feel upon watching their closeness to the usurper has me entering a melancholia I cannot escape.

Oh, woe is me.

In order to defend myself from the pain of my own emotions, I next utilised two tactics in order to keep myself sane. The first was eating a piece of string which I anticipated storing behind my left gum so, when the time was right, I could retrieve it and wrap it around the wheels of the chariot, thus derailing the vehicle the next time it attempted motion and causing an “accident” of sorts.

The second was to enact the territorial war cry of my people, loudly hissing and violently swinging my tail from side to side while dashing from one end of my domain to the other.

My first tactic went awry, as I somehow accidently swallowed the string I had stored for later and ended up with it hanging out of my poop hole as I was enacting my second tactic.

This meant that the Grandfeeders ended up pursuing me during the entirety of my ceremonial war cry, before holding me down like savages and pulling the string from my feline backside. During this time, they also seemed to entirely ignore the fact that I was hissing.

Then, after this trauma, I was shut out of my own domain, and left yowling loudly with the occasional hiss through the door to ensure I would not be forgotten.

The tiniest headed one remains in prime position to take my throne, but I maintain my ability to protect the crown, I fear it is just going to take a little more advanced planning next time.

I had not anticipated the tiniest headed one would be so entirely savage and cruel, nor so able to manipulate from such a young age.

I will not be fooled again.

Yours vindictively,


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