This is another 100 word story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
They’ve only got themselves to blame.
If I curl up everywhere except in the poxy kitty bed I’m supposed to love, that’s their fault.
If I yowl under their bedroom window every night; if I deposit half-chewed carcasses of their favourite backyard birds on the doorstep; if I scratch their woodwork, dig up their petunias, poo on the carpet—it’s their fault.
I could have given them so much—snuggled, purred, gazed devotedly.
I’d have put up with almost any indignity.
But not what they did.
They called me Mouse. They thought it was cute—thought I wouldn’t understand.
Let me admit straight up that I know very little about cats. I’ve been friends with quite a few dogs during my life, and I’m of the opinion that one knows where one stands with a dog. My cat owning friends might extol their puss’s affection, devotion and loyalty, but I’m not convinced. Just look into the watchful, yellow-green eyes of any cat and tell me it’s not plotting something devious.