Memoirs of a Cat

On tiptoes, she shuts the door. Click. Holding me by my neck, tight so my feet dangle, grazing the floor. I squirm and wriggle and offer a low throaty moan as a warning. She takes no notice. She hums a tune like a lullaby, a funeral hymn.  This is not new. I have been dragged from my resting place to this pink prison on many occasions.

The first time, I lashed out with a swift scratch. It only made it worse. She screamed and cried and accessories were added to the humiliation; a bracelet around my neck as my noose, beads on a thin string for handcuffs. Grubby hands pawing and clawing and pulling at my fur.

The teddy and the dolls lay naked on the floor and the prison rags are laid out. I see the bonnet. It is a pale blue with white lace fringe. I hate the bonnet. The last time I wore it I had tried to run. It had slipped around to the front and covered my eyes. I had no choice but to go backwards. She liked this. She laughed. She took hold of me, straightened it and tightened it. “There, that’s better.”

When will the old one notice I am gone? I am not curled, peaceful on the carpet. I am not scratching the side of the sofa, sharpening my weapons. I am not howling by the door to make it open.

When will she hear the silence and come to my rescue? The child is never quiet, never still save these interludes of abusive dress-up. But the house grows calm when her big brown eyes grow black and there is no escape. No release. Struggling is no good; she feels no pain.

The grip squeezes firmer about me, “Bad kitty. No!” There is a dress, one of her favourites at the ready. She reaches for it and my heart races faster. It is yellow with delicate pink hearts and it is very small. As she holds me close to the floor, one tiny sweaty hand around my neck she forces the dress over my head. It will not fit. It was made for a boneless teddy half my size.  She persists. My back legs, raised in the air begin to kick and my claws are out. My breathing becomes constricted and laboured as the dress is made my new collar. I thrash and swipe and cry.

When will the door open and liberate me? Maybe never.

I listen for the footsteps on the stairs. If a crack appeared in the door, I would bolt, the child distracted. I would tear at the socks on my padded feet; rip them to shreds so the dolls would not be able to re-use them. I would run to the door. I would howl and growl and hiss. I would take revenge on the soft furnishings and punish the old one for taking so long. I would destroy the house plants.

Maybe she is in on it too; this bonnet and booties plot against me.

I hear a rip, the sweet sound of momentary release. The hand that holds me unclenches for a second and I am able to dart under the bed. Wailing tears begin to erupt from the child, piercing my ears. I slink to the darkest corner where her stubby arms cannot reach. Her face appears, cocked to the side. The light casts a shadow so all I can see are her eyes, bright and furious. I snap at the yellow material and a white plastic button catches on my fang, landing by the skirting board. She screams.

Everything stops at a creak of the door. In the commotion I didn’t hear the footsteps. I see a gap widen and I see the old ones dirty slippers enter the room; furry smiling faces and floppy patchwork ears. The child stops crying and looks up, remorseless and red. This is my chance and I take it, new outfit and all.