Monday, October 24, 2011

The Story of My Life: Ditch Kitten

I feel in order for us to come to a place of proper appreciataion (i.e. you appreciating me), I must give you some account of my history. It is a grand, tragic, sordid tale such as you have likely only found in operatic form . . . until now. I see myself as something of a heroine, (possibly consumptive?) suffering in the throes of misunderstanding even as I struggle to raise myself to a place of supreme power. It is a saga of suffering and woe, a narrative of triumph and victory. It is a romance and a mystery.

And it's all about me!

My life began at an early age. So early, in fact, I really don’t remember much about those first few weeks. I seem to recall a certain amount of warmth and wriggling, some purrs and some softness all around me.

After that, all I really remember is the ditch.

Before you make any assumptions about my breeding or quality (considering these humble origins), may I remind you that all the greatest figures in every operatic saga known to cat began life as a foundling? You can only aspire to true greatness if you start life abandoned in a ditch. It's a . . . it's whatsit, thingy. Like something that comes before, like . . .

One moment, please.

"Molly! What's a word that means coming-before-to-tell-about-something-coming-later-thing?"

"You mean foreshadowing?"

"Do I?"

"I don't know! I'm confused!"

"Thanks anyway."

Whatever.  I remember crawling in a ditch, and I remember that it was cold. And I had the sniffles, which is almost like being consumptive, so you know it's romantic. I was mewing plaintively because you never know who might be listening. The world was much bigger and colder and lonelier than I had thought it might be. I had thought it would always be warm and snug and full of purrs. I had thought there would always be hands petting me and voices telling me how pretty I am.

Instead, I landed in the ditch. And it was wet. So I mewled my ire at the world and scrambled to get out.

I've tried to figure out since then why anybody would want to abandon me like that. After all, they had taken the time to raise me, had gotten me used to the smells and sounds of humans. They could see I had a sweet and friendly nature. (No really! I'm terribly sweet! Don't let wretched Anne Elisabeth tell you any different!) Did they get bored of me? Did they run out of food and have to give me up unwillingly? What happened to my big Mama-kitty and all the other wiggling furrinesses around me?

I will never know. All I can guess is that what happened needed to happen in order for my destiny as future ruler of Rooglewood to manifest. Manifesting destinies (as any connoisseur of opera knows), always go through certain bumps along the way. I suppose this was my first bump.

Anyway, I was cold and wet and coming down with the sniffles, when suddenly a big wheel-y thing came riding by. A human-creature--the kind known as a Boy--was riding on it, moving as fast as he could since it was cold. I took one look at his face and knew him to be my rescuer. With a great effort, I pulled myself to the top of the ditch and I told him: "MEEEEEW!"

Like the obedient rescuer he was, he stopped, set aside his bike, and picked me up.

"What are you doing out in the cold?" he asked.

"Meeew!" I told him, and I meant it. I really did!

Being an understanding sort, he tucked me inside his jacket. He couldn't ride his bike while holding me (I think maybe I struggled a little, but only enough to show that I should be respected), so he left it on the roadside and walked the rest of the long way to his home. I liked being warm under his jacket! And his heartbeat was very soothing.

When we finished our long walk, I was brought into a kitchen, and a Mother gave me something nice to eat. I was a pretty sick kitty, so they also made me take medicines, which I did NOT like. But at the time, I didn't have enough will to fight, so I took them.

Then they gave me a warm place to curl up. As I drifted off, I remember hearing the Mother say to the Boy, "Well, we can't keep her. We'll just have to see if we can find her a good home . . ."

But I was too sleepy to pay much attention.

Do you know, the human Boy never got his wheel-y thing back? I think he must have been like a hero to give up his machine to save me.

But then, I could not possibly have been saved by anything less than a Hero, could I?


  1. Argh, Miniver, I have such a weakness for these sorts of stories. I am now physically incapable of swallowing my morning tea.

    Such humble beginnings (may) enable you to understand the plight of the Common Cat and will (possibly) make you a fit ruler of Rooglewood. May your strings never grow tangled and your sunny patches never fade away.

  2. ...I also have a slight apology to make to you because my fingers, vastly more used to typing "Miniver" than "Minerva," have slipped up. I do know your title, and hope that my human fingers will be forgiven.

  3. Forgiveness shall be filed under consideration and judgment meted out in due course.

    In the meanwhile, yes, my story is one of true trial and tears, is it not? I like to think that Puccini would have used me as inspiration for his finest work if he but had the privilege of my acquaintance.

    Going to find my favorite sunny patch now . . .