My dearie Pal Whiskers, why did you go away in Auntie Brenda Biscuits’ arms, leaving me behind with The Pup (aka Ourai, Ms. Woofington, Double-Wide, Eskielator, The Galloping Ghost), who is no longer a dog child? Your Romany Miri Chi misses the snuggle warmth of you beside me, the prancing melody of your tenor meow, and the security of your protective paw. Without you padding before me, the world is too enormously empty. It echoes with barks from which I hurry to scurry. Two begging bowl are still filled daily, but only I eat, or often don’t eat, thinking of the devouring jaws that must have snapped you up. I am growing narrower while The Pup grows wider. She tells me I’m just a shadow of a whisker and likely to disappear. If I could claw open our Bookroom cupboard, where the Cat Tarots are stored, I’d paw out a spread for the moons and dukker my future without you.
Nights come and go, but my duties continue. In the role of the Collective’s property manager, I’m supposed to record yearly gains and losses. There are now just four of us house members, me, The Pup, and Birdo and Varna Macaws. An insistent backyard visitor, Mirko the Mooch, has been requesting member status. The outside cat vote has come in as negative. Gossip mews he is a swaggering bully of a welfare scammer. If The Pup did a more efficient job of policing, he would never have been permitted access to backyard food and water.
As required, I’ve kept a scratched record of pomegranate, persimmon, and quince tree production. Oranges and grapefruit are still ripening. If trees exceed last year’s harvest they will receive a reward of extra fertilizer. A lazy apricot tree was banished last spring and a similarly fruitless quince may be evicted soon. Every plant must earn its keep, says our Human Collective Manager, who has spent additional hours this spring and summer caring for garden health and happiness. I have a suspicion that several of the potted plants may be bribing yard cats to submit a positive report. These pampered pot dwellers live in trembling trepidation of being made potless.
The Pup has been unusually quiet following a trip to the vet’s in midsummer. It seems that her heart clock has an irregular tick tock and might suddenly stop during one of her high bounces or ear-torturing barks. Her prescription includes no walks except for short sniff-alongs, treat-rationing, positively no strenuous dog games that involve cats, and no bark-harassment of birds or other critters (this last prohibition has been difficult to enforce). Pardon my miri snigger but it’s finally Pup payback time.
Thank you, my dearie Pal, for gifting me your several soft beds, metal begging bowl, and share of Auntie Brenda’s generous lap. Gazing forward into the future of our Collective, I predict a joyfully pregnant spring moon’s arrival, once the last pale whisker of this hungry winter has vanished.
Submitted by Esmeralda Gypsy Cat
