Story about Dolly the Pussycat

(thanks to all the amazing people whom I can easily call my English teachers!!!; just I need to clear out I use British versions of words, this is also about "learnt" form)


Dolly the character was thought as a parody of today's teens - very well informed about things that aren't typical for her age, and still very naive about the other things
---------------------------------------------------

I love my Master. He treads on me time and again, but he's still cool. I have learnt to recognize his mood by listening to the rhythm and power of his step. It's not really that complicated - when the floor rumbles, it means he spoiled something again and is currently mad. When the panels chuckle, he is happy because he has an idea. When they groan, it means the idea turned out to be bad. My least favourite of his humours is "I live in another world" mode. I woefully hasten to inform you, he seldom visits "this" world these days. I am also stepped on more often.

My Master is a writer. Sometimes, I sneak into his study late at night to cry over the blood vessels in his eyes. What also worries me, is that gray isn't a natural skin colour for the other humans. I fancy an assumption that despite my Master insistance on calling cigarettes "his oxygen," it has more negative effect to his looks than he would like to admit. I have heard it was very painful for a woman to give a birth to a child, but I am not sure if it's not a bigger pain for my Master to finish this particular novel. I think he is slowly losing his senses. Popularity amongst London's society is a knife sharp at both sides. On the one hand, it pleasantly tickles your vain side of esteem, on the other, you can't afford dropping below a certain level, which is high.

I love my Mistress. When she walks, the floor turns into a meadow of flowers. I purr as her delicate hand strokes my fluffy forehead. She makes me feel really important. She would never do any harm to me, because I'm her only friend. When she is sad, she weeps in Ukrainian and I am the only one who is allowed to hear it. It's something I listen to quite frequently of late. We are like partners in crime... Bonnie and Clyde. Or rather, two Bonnies. I'm a female. We organize "feminine meetings" on a sofa. My Mistress sips coffee with milk; I am satisfied with the milk only. I never interrupt when she speaks.

My Mistress could be a writer. Her A-level essay on poetry analysing won the first prize in the annual competition in Kiev's region. But when my Mistress' parents' salaries were three months delayed, nobody asked about any writing references. The family followed the choice of many before them. Her mother - a Ph.D. graduate in Mathematics, became a babysitter in a neighbour country, while the Mistress resigned from Russian Literature studies in favour of working in a London coffee shop. Her father, the National Philharmony's musician, stayed home and became an alcoholic. My Mistress described to me the reality of life in some Eastern European countries; you are never sure when you are going to be paid. The only money you will always find is for the vodka that helps to forget.

Now dry your eyes - I'll tell you something cute. My Mistress has a lovely pussy.

My Master has a lovely pussy too.

Who am I, then? A bisexual submissive fan of bondage? No. I am a white, long-haired pussycat. A pussykitten, even. My name is Dolly and you can imagine how I felt when I heard about existence of a popshit band "Pussycat Dolls." My Master didn't like the overplayed solutions at life; however in two things he failed miserably. Apart from choosing such a labeling name for me, he gifted me a red, woolen clew and now is upset when I don't play with it the way he expects. Admittedly, when I am up for some comedy, I start chasing the wool just to see my Master's grin.

He must be exposing all the possible teeth he has. He must be also proud of them, because it happens that he calls me a "chick without the front teeth." I don't differ from other cats and I guarantee I could successfully bite him with the ones that I possess. I wish I could polish my claws just like my Mistress polishes hers. Since I can't, I am forced to take care of their shape in way other than that; sharpening on furniture sounds fair enough. Drop me a line if you have some silk clothes that need switching into mohair; I think I can help.

It never ceases to amaze me how my Mistress and my Master fail to communicate after three years of marriage.

"I was at the laundry service today," she says.
"Not sure which disease is the best to kill my main character with," he responds.
"Mrs. Bloomfield came with her grandson and I swear the first thing the kiddo did was pack his strawberry ice cream into the washing machine."
"Diarrhea sounds like fun, but more sensitive readers may not share my sense of humour..."
"I wouldn't have cared about this ice cream, if he hadn't had thrown it into MY machine with OUR clothes..."
"Heart attack is natural and reliable but cliche, isn't it?" he asks.
"Actually, he did it when the washing was already finished. I had to pay for the second round," she finishes.
"Wait a minute, are you actually suggesting gagging my character with a strawberry ice cream till he drowns in a washing machine? Does it make sense?"
"I am talking about Mrs. Bloomfield's grandson...! He stole one of your socks! The black one with pink polka dots!"
"Not a bad idea overall, matches my imagination of grotesque, yet I'm not fully convinced..." he continues his own column.

This was an example of a talk, but the worst thing is they rarely converse at all. My Mistress once recalled their first meeting; it happened at the coffee shop where she used to work. My Master ordered a large latte with double whipped cream, without noticing how beautiful the attendant was. She heard dozens of compliments on her golden hair every day. Or on her blue eyes, the home of peace. Or on her smile, that could set a frappe on fire. But the first compliment my Master told her was truly unique: "You're ingenious." She helped him, not only giving a piece of paper, which he lacked, but also constructively criticizing his idea for a novel. Later, my Mistress became my Master's best critic, then a muse, and finally a wife. She gave up on her own dreams of becoming an author, totally devoting herself to a household. It has never been a subject of an argument, which one of them mastered in English, and which one tended to use Slavic order of words in the sentence, especially when nervous or depressed. Two authors in one flat would die of hunger. Not because they couldn't afford food, but because they would be too busy thinking of something else than basic body's needs.

My Mistress had trouble with associating with local upper class. She kept silent during the official dinners, because she was too ashamed to ask: "Could you please repeat a bit slower and clearer?". Owning an amazing general knowledge, she wasn't able to appropriately express herself. Felt like a recently blinded woman in need of finding a path home in a forest full of werewolves or other rubbish from her hubby's fantasy books. She has lately promised herself to switch thinking to English only; I was a witness of it. Just like a witness of the moments of breakdown. I can meow fluently in both English and Ukrainian. How much I wish I was able to help her.

******

Three weeks went by, and things continued to go downhill to achieve the level of an average altitude in Holland. My Master was working on his nutcase credentials while my Mistress planned to betray him. It was one of those days when the traffic was heavier than usual. The Mistress couldn't arrive on time to prepare a dinner. The home's main novelist forgot eating breakfast and lunch, so he went 'hunting' around dinner time. I discovered the horrifying fact he had no clue about the topography of the kitchen. His wife arrived after about half an hour. At that time, I was sitting nearby. Observing.

"I was thinking of changing publishers... Robert sucks." My Master gave a recap of all his day's thoughts.
"Do whatever you feel is alright." My Mistress replied with a shaking voice. She was having a horrible couple of hours.

Then something happened. In the middle of the kitchen's carpet he noticed... ME.

"Why is this cat giving me such a wicked glance?"

My Mistress turned around from the cupboard, looked at me, at the Master, and at the table. "She's always like this when somebody eats up from her plate."

That night my Mistress cried like never before. She whined, screamed, hissed and, beat the pillow with her tiny fists. She also helped me to widen my Ukrainian vocabulary with a few juicy swearings. I became the most worried when she cried out that she was done with being a servant, that she was going to sign up for an evening course and read James Joyce in original.

"Who was James Joyce?" I wondered. Wasn't reading my Master's books enough? Was she planning to seduce somebody unknown? The marriage was evidently falling apart, and they needed an urgent solution, but the neighbours couldn't help them. My Mistress was saying they were all neds, after the couple from that green house designated her as "another Russian" and the old single woman from the opposite building called her "another Polish." So maybe some family negotiations? The Mistress kept a very random contact with all her relatives. My Master's parents lived around ten miles from here, but I had seen the pictures of that place and personally I wouldn't trust anyone who lives beneath the ground and is covered with any kind of stone. I admit that the little candles in front of the stone did create some familiar atmosphere, but they couldn't fool me. The parents were bigger lunatics than the son. I realized the burden of saving the marriage rested on me, so I came up with a plan. Never having been outside before, I confess I was scared like hell. "Don't be a sissy pussy! Man up!" I encouraged myself. "Woman up!" corrected it after a minute.

I'd heard London was rainy, but never had experienced it on my soft, white fur until that day. Didn't like the feeling. The view of aristocats passing me by in their aristomasters' limousines was additionally depressing as I ran on the pavement. A teenie in the big city alone for the first time... Pussycat Dolly on a mission of saving the marriage of people she loved the most... Could you imagine what would happen if they divorced? Court's verdict: "Dolly stays with the Master on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays and with the Mistress on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays. On Sundays she catches mice in the court's cellars." I remember the overwhelming pain from the blisters on my paws, but the mentioned thought kept adding me fuel. I generally knew my direction, saw that place on TV plenty of times. The local orphanage. But before I reached the gate, I heard a long yowl, that surely came from a male cat. I tried to not react and turn my pace up. You always hear so much about pedophilia and other reasons why you shouldn't talk to the strangers. That cat didn't want to give up. He was much bigger and quicker than me. Gray, dirty and stinky. Had only a half of the right ear. A street fighter.

"Heeey Lolita, do you want to have fun?" I swear he almost barked when outpacing me and crossing my road.
"I don't want any 'fun'! Not with you!" I meowed angrily.
"Come on, don't act shy... move that pretty tail!"
"Go away, you... buffoon!" I was too young and too well brought up to use stronger words, even towards such a meanie.
He moved closer... I smelt his odour... uhh...

"Go away, buffoon. What's the matter, can't you hear?"

A new pair of yellow-orangish eyes sparkled in the darkness. People say all cats' fur at night is black. It's not true, but that one was the case for sure.

"If you touch an underage, they will pack you to an animal shelter. Don't you want to know what they do there to cats like you? Of course, you don't want to know. But I will tell you. They CASTRATE them!"

"Sorry boss... I only fancied the chat... and she almost scratched me," my stalker muttered, staggering backwards. Bang! His bottom hit a steel dust bin.

The black handsome owner of those hypnotising eyes drew closer, crooning
"What is a pretty little kitten like you doing on an ugly, hostile street like this?"
"Going to the orphanage; I must do something to prevent my Master and Mistress from getting divorced!"
"Aren't you afraid?" I thought he meowed with a Russian accent.
"Yes... I am... But I have to risk, otherwise they're done!"
"Okay, I'll assist you. I wouldn't forgive myself if something happened to you. By the way, my name is Nikolay and all the cat-gangs in London are in my paw. Lately I've also tried some gambling business, but it's a little more dangerous. Interpol has almost knocked to my door. I think in the end they got scared of messing with my master."
"May I know who your master is? Mine is Gavin Richards, perhaps you've heard of him?"
"Oh, Gavin Richards. I am a fan of his books. Well, my master is an owner of one of the football clubs in the city."
I leaned in, muttering "Are you Russian?"
"Yes. My race is a Russian Black Cat. You must be also pedigree, young lady?"
"I didn't introduce myself! Sowwwwy! My name is Dolly and I don't exactly remember the name of my race, but I'm from American long-haired cats. Both of my parents are the UK citizens though. By the way I think, we could understand each other in Slavic languages. I can meow in Ukrainian, thanks to my Mistress," I boasted. My Mistress would be happy for me now.
"You will be a beautiful lass one day - with an Eastern European soul. You have to remember it turns on many of the cats here. And some information especially for your fluffy ears, I was born in Ukraine".
I blushed. Fortunately, my fur covered it.
"Well, here you have the orphanage. On the right."
"Mhmm, thank you... 'sposibo', I mean."

It was awkward just to say goodbye. I had a crush for the first time, and already on the wrong cat. My Master shouldn't read so many books aloud, I follow the bad patterns after his pathological characters.

"Is there a chance we meet again?" he asked, and dare I say, he sounded a little shy saying this!
"If your heart shows you the path to my Master's garden, I am there," I jumped on the stairs and waved goodbye with my tail.
"Do svidanya, Dollyochka! And good luck!"

I entered the door. Hard to imagine, but inside it was even darker than on the street. Did you know that cats see in the dark only when they have a little bit of light to focus in their eye? I didn't, until then. I was following intuition when sneaking through the semi-closed door to one of the rooms. I noticed one bed was empty and jumped on it. After maybe five minutes I heard human steps and a voice coming from the corridor:
"You will finish writing tomorrow, Fatima. All the good girls sleep at this hour."
"And is it bad if I want to be a bad girl and keep writing, Ms. Swanson?"
"You may become a famous girl. One day, I mean. But to achieve it you also have to sleep for an appropriate amount of hours."

Ms. Swanson turned the light on. She screamed. I might have been not something she had exactly expected to see. Fatima grinned. The Middle-Eastern looking girl lacked some of her front teeth. I know that her 'adult' teeth would come in soon, but for a moment I felt we were the same. I immediately wanted her to be my Miss. Falling in love twice during one evening almost made me feel like a slut. Shame on you, Dolly.

Fatima loved me back. She took me delicately on her hand and brought me to Ms. Swanson, whispering soflty 'kiri kiri kitten'. As a wannabe author she should be able to come up with some better lines, but at least I doubted she would eat from my plate.

Ms. Swanson was generous enough to allow me stay the night.
"Mhhh, the cat surely lives in one of the surrounding houses. I'll do some research in the morning."

My Miss and I fell asleep. I dreamt of home. Probably Fatima did as well...

***********************************************************************************
A strange vision came to me that night, a vision of me being a human and reading a book. It wasn't a random novel; it spoke of my Master's and my Mistress' behaviour while I was gone. Later, Mistress told what really happened, and it astonished me how similar it was to what to my dream. Supernatural? As a cat, I have nine lives, so I should slowly get accustomed to all the tricky things concerning me. Anyway, here's the story:


It was so tough for Rose to enter Gavin's Kingdom, which his study room was, and talk to him like in the old times. He had become a stranger to her. A scary one, at that. It was safer to talk when Dolly was around. But to whom should she talk to after Dolly disappeared?

Rose's name wasn't Rose - it's just a translation. Gavin Richards' name wasn't Gavin Richards - it's just a nickname.

"Gav, Dolly is missing," Rose whispered, standing at the door with a cup of coffee in her hand.

Gavin put down his fortieth cigarette today. The book was almost finished. Finally. "I am almost done." That is how he wanted to respond. Then, he glimpsed at his wife. She looked so anxious. Where was the passion and the sense of life that connected them once? And heck, where was Dolly? He stood and moved towards Rose. Unintentionally, she stepped back.

"God..." Gav thought. Yes, like a whole lot of writers, he was an atheist.

He felt suddenly yanked from his world of weird characters, complicated plots, cliffhanger endings, diarrhea after having a strawberry ice cream in the middle of a washing machine and heart attacks upon the kitty's plate. In his world, the air was so thick from smoke that you could hang an axe in it. Suddenly, he was in another world, one where the people were real….Where his beautiful wife was stepping away from him, someone who transformed from creator to creature. His wife was closer to her cat than to her own husband…”

"We’ll find her.” He kept moving forward, though with the uncertainty of a beginning swimmer in deep water. "Give me your hand, Rosie."

Rose didn't want to keep stepping away, but she felt unsafe. She trembled.
"The window was opened all day long. Dolly is not in the garden... She must have entered the street or... somebody stole her.."

Her husband found within himself enough courage to finally come up and embrace her. She started weeping in the arms she hadn't touched for months. Feelings are like riding a bike. You can't forget them.
"I'll send the announcements about Dolly's disappearing. We'll set a reward for the finder. Anyway, what about putting The Kinks on and having some cherry wine?"
"I'm not in mood for cherry wine," Rose said.
"And for The Kinks?"
"Yes..."
They turned a horrible night into quite an interesting one.
********************************************************************************************


I heard Ms. Swanson talking on the phone with the Master. The number was given on the morning radio news. It took less than ten minutes to spread the gossip about Gavin Richards visiting an orphanage just to take home a... cat. His own cat, ironically. Some fans blocked his entrance into the building, but my beloved Mistress snuck past them and ran upstairs to the room.” She looked spellbinding. Prettiest ever. I so wanted to jump on her chest, but then I figured I could hurt her when catching my balance. Besides, I knew my place was on Fatima's knees for now. When my Master asked Fatima what kind of reward she wanted for taking care of me, she just gave him a copybook with her stories and asked for a review.
"Mhhh, actually, I have to give it to my wife. She's the greatest critic ever, and without her insightful comments, I wouldn't have been half that successful... She should be reviewing as a professional, actually..."
"Thanks!" my Mistress openly laughed and patted my Master on his back. "But it's a lot of stuff in here, shouldn't we all just go home and take some time?"

And we all did.