It's 9.30am and my bowl is still empty. Not a sliver of food, which I know is safely tucked underneath the sink. I know it's there; I can smell it from anywhere in this dinky apartment.
gRmeeow. They call this an apartment? It's not even big enough for a furry little thing like me. And these people are huge. I know. They've stepped on me, kicked me, pushed me away often enough.
I begin my usual attempt to wake them up. Scratching the carpet noisily with my claws, the wooden doors, and stretching far underneath the door in hope that there might be anything within reach that I could eat.
It's frustrating; where's my food? I'm feeling dizzy - is she still sleeping? Why can't she take the time to feed me, just a little bit? She came out earlier, while I was waiting patiently beside her door. Nary a glance at my way before she slammed the door shut, afraid that I'd scuttle in and ruin her precious bed.
They don't let me in their rooms - never. One of my greatest achievements involve sneaking in within the few nanoseconds before they could slam the door properly, and racing into the tiniest, most secure hiding place I can find and stay put, while they curse and try frantically to grab me with their clumsy big hands. I live for those moments. If they won't pay attention, screw with them where it matters, I meow.
Even though getting stuck in between the door and the door frame is a very uncomfortable position to be at. Especially when it's your stomach they're crushing.
My tummy is so empty you can make African tribal music with it.
Where's my food? If only the people in ISPCA could understand what I'm meowing about when I dial their number. This is total animal abuse.
Wait a second. I remember reading something about babies in one of the past Cosmo mags under the coffee table. My makeshift skateboards. Ah. Nothing can compare to the sensation of sliding off the table with these glossy pages, messing up the whole stinking (mostly due to my litter) place just to hear their groans and curses the moment they come home.
Cosmo. Babies. Right. Hmmmeow... *hiSses* That's it! Babies cry as loud as they can to get attention
and food from their caregivers. Right there, under 50 reasons to not have babies till you're 50.
I took my usual post right next to her door. *coughes up different sizes of furball* Ahem. MeeEeeeEeeOOoOOooOoooOOWWwwww!~X100
A door opens. The other door. The tallest of them all stepped out, her hair all messy from sleep, and crouched down to pick me up, cooing at me with sweet morning breath. She understands that I am hungry and mean no harm. I nuzzle into her arms, momentarily satisfied.
But still it's not enough. It's not her I want to wake up. I need the bloody person in charge of food. For some bizarre reason, she restricts anyone else from feeding me. "Dowan him to get all fat and ugly," I heard her more than once.
Hah! Like that would ever happen. Look at me; I'm as fit as I can be, stuck in this too-small apartment.
A sudden sense of lost and depression settled upon my furs, and I bean to lament the older days. What happened? They used to love me, cuddle me, coo at me and let me sleep on their laps while watching TV. She used to feed me on time, let me sleep with her, shower me, throw out my litter in a timely fashion.
What went wrong? Is it me? Am I not supposed to grow bigger and stop being a cute little kitten? But I can't control these things, can I?
Everyday these thoughts scratches the sides of my brains like my overgrown claws, driving me into a bloody mess of insanity. It's so unfair; who ever got abandoned for growing up?
The tall girl went back to bed, leaving me to fend for myself in the cold, unheated living room. It's ok. She meant well. I can tell she's an animal lover.
Frustrated, I let out a great Simba-like growl and my brain just snapped. All I could feel was my eyes flickering hot, my whiskers tensed and my tail straightened like a feather duster. I arched my back angrily; this is too much.
I decided to do some damage in the kitchen. The biggest sin of all, judging from their reactions. But who cares. I'll do what brave, stray cats do when they're hungry - thrash the rubbish bins for food.
If the noise doesn't wake her up, the sight of it will have to do.
I licked my paws clean and waited, my gleaming eyes staring vengefully at the only piece of wood that separates me from the one person who could make all this misery go away.
