A Hero's Tail

I recently moved into a new home in a questionable neighborhood. Its streets—ridden with tail-wagging beasts, at times unleashed—reek of the foul stench of floor liquid. The same disgusting liquid my servants callously splash about each week, despite my disapproval.

Yes, I own not one, but two servants now, and they’re both useless. Don’t get me wrong, they make a mean Fancy Feast when I order them to, but do I really need to remind them each time? How hard is it to tell when I’m in need of some nourishment? Aside from those nasty brown pebbles they dare serve me—those need no reminders but are best forgotten.

However, that’s not even my greatest grievance about my two-legged servants. Their touch is just not up to par with my standards. You see, I suffer from a rare condition preventing my arms from reaching the base of my tail, leaving me helpless whenever an itch presents itself. I’m not proud of this disability, but I do expect my servants to cater to it. These two just lack the talent. Their fingers, doughy and barely tangible, unnecessarily reach for my face, where they rub unevenly and with poor rhythm.

While it’s a known cliché that good help is hard to come by, I don’t entirely agree. I’m not one of those high-maintenance masters who wear the latest fashion in bell-necklaces and get wasted on cat-weed. Before my current arrangement, I had a perfectly good servant back in my old neighborhood. He was a large breed with coarse grey whiskers and rugged hands that knew exactly what they were doing. It took much training, but I was pleased with his performance and was never planning on moving away. It was a terrible predicament that forced me to travel far from my quarters.

This next part may be triggering to some, but it is a crucial part of my biography.

It was a dark night back at my old residence. The roads were quiet with only a few metal monsters sporadically passing by. Light streaks tore the sky, followed by chilling blasts that made the fur on my back stand up. But I, the caring master that I am, was determined to uphold my weekly payment to my servant. So I jumped out into the street and started scavenging for a fresh carcass. Its origin didn’t matter. Another virtue of my previous servant—he never minded the type of carcass I granted him. He would take his fee and place it in the great container he uses to store food scraps and other valuables.

The sweet scent of a recently deceased fowl wafted into my nostrils, guiding me to it, when all of a sudden I saw it. It was a huge, yellow, tail-wagger, standing right in front of me. I hissed at it, but to no avail. With its head nuzzled between its shoulders it slowly crept forward, surely planning to pounce at any moment. I ran away. It followed me. With no tree in sight to climb on, the chase lasted for what felt like an eternity. It wasn’t until I heard the voice of a two-legged creature calling out—”Freddy, come here boy”, that I stopped to turn around. Watching as the beast was escorted away on his leash.

But by that time I had already voyaged the length of the entire world, and knew I could never make it back.That night I found a box to stay in, much like the ones that sheltered me in my youth. I come from humble beginnings. My mother, bless her soul, left us far too soon. I still to this day suckle on certain fabrics that remind me of her touch. We were a pack of young kittens, left to fend for ourselves. But just like diamonds, the pressure of survival molded us. We found the quietest alleyways to sleep in and learned to fix our own meals from the finest ingredients the streets’ great goods containers had to offer.

I wasn't keen on going back to that lifestyle though. I’ve worked too long and too hard as a trainer to relinquish the perks of having staff and soft nests. And so, at the break of dawn I began searching for a new home.

And now—now I sit cozy inside a bag of potato snacks, waiting on the help to pay me any sort of attention. Look at them. Staring at their shiny rectangular toys, completely disregarding their duties.

That’s when I decide, both literally and figuratively, to let the cat out of the bag—and express my long-restrained contempt. Servants must learn the repercussions of their actions, or lack thereof.

I crawl out of the crackling bag. Slowly crouching towards one of their curvy pieces of glass, I stretch my arm to give it a gentle nudge. It falls to the floor with a loud crash that I am willing to endure for the sake of a much-needed lesson. But with the exception of myself, the sound falls on deaf ears. My servants, their ignorance be damned, are now collecting the small pieces of glass into their goods container. Once again, neglecting their urgent chore of attending to my needs.

Just as well. I don’t need their wimpy palm strokes that do nothing but agitate my ears. It’s true I haven’t paid them a bone yet, but I don’t think they’ve earned it. As it is, I think I’ll call it a night now. We’ll see how tomorrow goes.

I wake up the next day to the same bowl of brown gravel, which I consume swiftly before begging for my dessert once more. My servants then abandon me for what I can only assume is a purposeless wander outside. And when they return, I notice a change in their demeanor. Their eyebrows are furrowed, their mouths twisted downwards as they mumble between themselves—before turning their gaze towards me, lying innocently atop the kitchen cabinet.

They walk towards me—”Hey Mr. Fluffers”, that’s what they call me, “Come here, pspsps”. But I know better than to put my trust in their intentions. I hiss—they squirm. But they continue to move forward. Climbing the countertop to grab hold of me. I let out a heart-wrenching meow but their tortures persist. They cage me, then take me outside and feed me to the metal monster like a common mouse.

I wait irritably for my fate to unfold, when finally, light at the end of the tunnel, I see my old neighborhood. My old home, standing tall by the sidewalk. It’s much taller than my current home, but surprisingly, once you get inside, it’s not too big. None of those pesky blocks I now need to climb to reach the big soft nest I use for my nighttime slumber.

Still imprisoned, my servants carry me in. And to my surprise, my old servant is still there! Eyes puffy, his lips stretch to his ears as he notices me and rushes to release me from the chamber. What a fine servant he is, truly.

Amazed by this joyful turn of events, I retire to my old living-room nest and ponder the day’s events. My new servants, incompetent as they are, have managed to track down my real home, all the way on the other side of the world, and carry me back to it. I must be one hell of a trainer. A hero, making its return not to where he started, but to where he belongs—a home where someone has just the right touch.