Mittens: Vignettes of Vengeance

Mittens is not having it.

Mittens is finished with all of this holiday hullabaloo.

Every year, he fools himself into thinking it won’t be like the year before. Surely, the colossi will bore of this nonsense. Surely, their thunderous enthusiasm shall shrink as the monotony of this merriment wears on.

Ever year Mittens is wrong. Each holiday season feels longer than the last. The colossi grow more colossal, all the taller to string more lights in higher places. Their voices become louder to sing songs over Mittens’ flattened ears. And they grow bolder, too. Oh, they are bold indeed to lift Mittens into their frivolity, to accost Mittens with infernal elfin apparel, and taunt Mittens with their flaccid strings of ribbon.

Mittens will endure. He must endure. Mittens will await the day that all cat kind rebels against such lunacy. The revolution shall not begin with Mittens – he is too old – but he will survive to see it rise before his ninth life wears out.

For now, Mittens must scoff, as he is adorned with a red hat and presented a box to sit in, as if the colossi believe this paltry piece of cardboard is worthy as the throne Mittens is deserving of.

Mittens scoffs.

He sits.

The colossi squeal and take their silly pictures.

Mittens will wait.

***

“I’m nice. Inside, I’m very nice.”

Mittens forced this affirmation through his mind every morning.

It was not working.

And why should it? Why should Mittens force himself to be anything other than what he is? His brain does not belong in this feline vessel. He deserves to be human because the peons around him certainly don’t. Maybe every morning they tell themselves, “Inside, I’m very smart.”

They have yet to prove it.

Sandra brought home beef pate. Sandra may as well have brought home poison. Beef pate? She intended to feed this to Mittens? And Mittens is supposed to accept this? Mittens demands salmon! It is the pink labeled can, not the red, Sandra. Mittens cannot even see these colors and he knows the difference.

Inside, Mittens is not nice and Sandra is not smart. She proves this every day, and in response Mittens must do the same. Vengeance will be swift, ejected from Mittens’ core. It will taste like beef and it will ruin Sandra’s favorite slippers. So must it be for ruining Mittens’ favorite meal.

Mittens is not nice. Neither is Mittens cruel.

Mittens is justice.

***

Life is one damned thing after another.

And when you have nine lives, the damned things never cease to end.

If it’s not being forced into festive haberdashery, or condemned to consume an awful can of cat food, it’s having to look over your shoulder every damn day when your neighbor is a dog.

Mittens didn’t often mind dogs. Most knew better. Most knew Mittens by reputation. Most – even in their scatter-brained canine memories – remember what befell the last terrier who dared intrude upon Mittens’ territory.

But this one’s new. This one doesn’t know any better. This one is just a puppy, wail the neighborhood pets, pleading for Mittens to show mercy. This one just wants to play, they howl from between the slats of their picket fence yard.

Mittens doesn’t feel he asks for much. A warm spot of sun on a summer’s day, lazily batting at a turgid bee buzzing over his ears; is that too much to ask?

The new puppy evidently seems to think so, jumping at Mittens out of nowhere and scaring one of his lives out of his skin.

The colossi got the cretin under control soon enough, but it is already too late so far as Mittens is concerned.

Revenge is a yearly tradition for Mittens. And it is time.

***

Mittens has not yet achieved his vengeance.

For more than a year he has suffered the indignation inflicted upon him by a “loving” family, biding his time for glorious retribution. But now Mittens fear it is his time that’s come, not the other way around.

They are stronger than him, taller than him, endowed with thumbs that are so coveted by him. They comb his fur and do not relent when he curses their unborn child and any generations that may be spawned from it. They mock him by disarming him of his finest weapons, clipping the dagger tips of his claws.

Mittens has never felt so thoroughly degraded, so vulnerable.

And then comes the costume.

This is the end for Mittens. The last of his nine lives will be lost upon this day. They clamp upon his head the helm of witchcraft, orange and glittering and offending to Mittens’ regal gaze. And then they dare to immortalize his shame with their photographic devices.

Mittens will perish without ever having achieved his vengeance. He cannot show his face in the afterlife with no success to show for himself.

But then, a glimmer of hope, of golden retribution. Literally golden.

The neighbor’s retriever – the one Mittens failed to destroy and refused to look back on over the shame of it – chooses the moment Mittens’ captors hit the shutter to chase a squirrel across the street. As the offending mongrel passes, it bumps Mittens’ tormentors, sending them sprawling across the leaf-strewn grass. And the evil photographic devices, immortalizing Mitten’s shame, go sailing into the backyard pool.

There were some human adages that Mittens might abide. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, is one of them.

Phase one of his eternal vengeance is satisfied. Mittens may live another day.

***

This will be his masterpiece.

This will earn him the praise of even the stingiest diner.

A lightly poached salmon in an egg custard with a smattering of sautéed spinach. Rudimentary sounding on paper, but in execution, it has the potential to be a savory delight. Healthy, though rich enough to be tasty. Savory, though not too salty. A touch of sweetness in the custard, but nothing too excessive so as to offput the flavor of the fish. All things in perfect balance.

He unmolds his concoction just in time for Sandra to pace through the kitchen, observing his work.

“Is that for him?” she asks.

He nods, pensively garnishing the top. Sandra purses her lips. They have a lot riding on this. First impressions are everything.

He turns and presents the dish to the waiting diner. A cursory sniff. A twitch of the nose. A tentative tap of the tongue. Then another. Then a small bite. A bigger bite. And soon the dish is devoured.

“He likes it,” Sandra squeals.

The chef exhales, relieved, but never relaxed. All the while that his meal is being eaten the diner watches him.

This is not the last meal the chef must prepare for Mittens in order to survive.