My kitty reclines erotically on the radiator, oblivious to her scalding fur, thinking only of my loving stare. My kitty and I have a lubriciously fraught relationship wherein she lolls salaciously, I nod approvingly and in silence, we stare… sympathetically. For my kitty is unlike all other kitties, in that my kitty eats matzoh and wonders at the fulfillment of strays on the streetside gobbling leavened bread in Wintertime and keening, like baleful Irishwomen, into the Aryan night.
As you can see, my cat is a sophisticate. My cat laps curdled milk out of a pretty chintz saucer that I have had personally printed by A.G. Richardson & Co. No expense is spared for my life’s companion. I see to it that my cat should always have toys. She has catnip bananas, bell-beribboned bunnies and me. That’s right: me, her lover and savior. I am the only one who understands her, the body to her cancer. I am sure I should be delighted to be stared at longingly from atop that heat-emitting instrument… forever.
But it wasn’t always like this. My cat was once a scurrilous kitten with bones to pick. In a squalid back alley, dripping with sludge and sewer water, I came upon my fated confederate mewing in a trash bag, covered in weeds. I wrapped her in my arms, as she nipped at my elbows: There, baby feline; I’ll not do you harm. Even then, there was a spark, a connection between us. I could feel it in my gaping bite wounds: She was the kit I’d been waiting for.
As my kitty accustomed herself to a more dignified lifestyle, her manners improved, her unruliness waned. But still, a native, sensual strain (atavistically endemic to wildcats) remained; I would not wish it gone. It gives my cat a gravity, an indigenousness I would not be able to respect my cat without.
For my kitty’s nostalgie de la boue communes her with the Earth, the material world, and conversely (through her humility) to the Lord. My cat is a prophet. My cat can do no wrong. Vile words entertain her; lengths of rope contain her. Troughs of mud and slop remind her of that from which she came; visions of angels and opaque vistas, of where she shall soon go.
I oftentimes fear they will take her away. My kitty would be valuable for all sorts of scientific contrivances. I worry I shall wake in the midst of some terrible night to find her gone. But I harry myself. No one knows what a kitty I own. And no one will discover so long as I have cover in so irreproachable a body as the one in which I practice: the Church.
And yet, it happened: One unsuspecting day, my benefactor, Lady Catherine de Bourg, pulled me aside at the end of my sermon, while the congregation stood, roused in an animated encore. As she tugged upon my cloak, she bludgeoned me thusly: Pray, do tell what inspires this recent change in countenance! This suspiciously rosy demeanor. Whatever is the object of this abominable sybaritism, you shall give it up at once!
My heart palpitated violently as I apprehended my Lady’s words and when I reached my humble home that night, shivering and sweating as the door creaked forth, I spied my kitty sitting erect and satanic upon my liturgical headdress.
No! I shrieked as I dove to cast her off. She caterwauled savagely at this sudden loss of power, but I had seen enough to know I had seen too much. What hell indeed did my revealed kitty wish to raise? Her dark, glossy eyes made her motives clear. Big as saucers, wild as night: She was an instrument of Hades set on tormenting me with her primitive night games and moving cries. I had to finish her off.
But just as I reached for my shiny, silver scythe, my kitty mewed coyly and moved to stretch her alluring feline body onto the hot, ill-omened radiator: We watched each other steadily, unapologetically and vulgarly. It was then, as my kitty writhed wrongly on the heater and I, defeated, poured myself a glass of gin, that I knew my cat and I were lost to Hell forever.