The Evil One
Our happy Cynical household consists primarily of three creatures. The most important one, naturally, is me. The most pleasant one (excepting myself) is Audrey, who has through many years of patient training acquired a grace and elegance in service that any cat may well envy (to be the recipient of, that is). I am fairly pleased with her, although there is, of course, still room for improvement. Well, there is plenty of time.
And then there is, deplorably, a third element. He calls himself Perry The Cynic. I call him The Evil One. It is all, I suppose, a matter of perspective.
Lest my faithful fans rush to report him to the Humane Society or similar organizations, I must admit that he is not... exactly abusing me. His problem, and my fate, is that he happens to belong to a vanishingly small minority of humans on this planet. He seems to be, to an unbelievable extent, resistant to feline persuasion. I am sure you can see the problem. Such a person is hard enough to take in small doses. Perhaps one could argue that occasional, minor contact with such a person might be salutary for a cat, if only to convince her that her lot is a happy one, mercifully separate and unencumbered by such a living affront to the feline soul. But what is a cat to do, when forced by grievous misfortune to actually share a house with such a creature?
Well, let me tell you what: she perseveres. In my next life, I shall have a dozen faithful human servants plying me with treats around the clock, with gentle massages in between and cat toys three inches deep on the floor. I am earning this right now. Heck, I've already earned it twice over!
The very cheek of this man! He has claimed half of the bed for himself. He sits where he likes, without regard to my prior claims and rightful privileges. When he feeds me, he... he makes me beg for my food! It is just too much. Sometimes I can retaliate by enlisting Audrey in support, but it never works for long. And then we stare each other down again, and I get this sick feeling in my stomach knowing that not only can he throw me off my rightful pillow, but just once in a while he actually will. The humiliation!
I have not given up hope. I never will. One day I will wake up, and it will all have been a terrible, terrible nightmare triggered by too much catnip and tuna. The house will again belong to me (and Audrey - but then, she belongs to me), and I will have a happy hairball while remembering, with a delicate feline shudder, the horror of that silly nightmare called The Evil One.
Excuse me. I think I hear him coming, and this monitor suddenly is a bit... hot and uncomfortable. I'll move. See you...