Ruru the Cat here. Baby keeps bugging me about taking over the blog for a day. I was going to tell you all about how my person's dad tortured me by holding a sandwich just out of reach and wouldn't even give me a taste. Well, not a very big taste. It was going to be dramatic and moving. I swear. But I'm just gonna have to let Baby take over this week, so I can get her to shut up. So here she is.
They call me Baby. It is condescending and ridiculous. In my mind, I am Me, Empress of the Universe, Center of all Meaning, Goddess of the Hunt, Keeper of Chaos, Executioner of all Things Small and Yummy. I have played rodents to death. I rule this house. Do not treat me with condescension.
[What an ugly, worthless Beast looks like.]
The humans have done something unforgivable. I can almost pardon the silly epithet with which they call me. I even acknowledge their existence when they use it. No, they have done far worse: they have brought in a stranger. I'm not talking those dogs that come and go or even the toddlers and babies and other humans beneath my notice that spend little time here. No, no. I'm talking the Beast who is still here after multiple weeks. It showed up, and I expected them to kill it as it deserves.
The dogs ignored it and now sometimes sit with it. The humans embraced it. The other cats occasionally hiss at it but mostly act as if it's one of us. But they do not understand the depth of this creature's depravity.
It is a foreigner. It is not our blood. It is undeserving of life. It must die. Ruru spoke of this Beast once in passing, but she hasn't mentioned it once since. She needs to rail on its existence. She needs to call out for its demise. I hunt it throughout the house, perching outside any room that harbors it to behold its every stop at the litter box, its every presumption at eating my cat food. I hiss or growl at it, and finally, others are reminded of its monstrosity. But most of the time, I am the only one who gets it, the only one who understands the purpose of the hunt.
Ruru the Cat again. Man, alive, Baby, over-the-top much? Cassandra isn't that bad. She's just a tabby. I don't like it when she eats my food or gets in my face, but seriously, Baby? You need a life. Not kidding. And get over yourself about what a great mouser you are. It was one baby vole. Once that you played to death. My death count is a lot higher. Go dive in a pile of snow and take a chill.
[How to cool off a mean old cat like Baby.]
Not funny, Ruth.
Actually, it's pretty hilarious. And don't call me Ruth. I hate that name. So much for letting Baby borrow my blog. Now, she'll be all uppity and insufferable for the next week. I wonder how soon I can sneak her outside and throw her in the snow.
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