Goddess

After much public demand and acclaim, I have decided to write this story via my servant, who is typing it up for me. Paws make wonderful sponges and lethal weapons, but they're so inefficient when it comes to using the clumsy servant's device known as a 'keyboard'. So.

My name is Purrdita Amora Gisella Raptora Rodentsbane the Third. But my servant and her friends call me Purdy. Humans themselves have such short names, so I suppose one can't blame them for being unable to pronounce one's own.

People often ask me what it is to be a goddess. Actually, they say cat, but it's the same thing as far as I'm concerned. Those Ancient Egyptians had the right idea. For the sake of posterity, greater understanding between cat and servant and instant fame plus accolades and a lifetime's supply of free Whiskas (you know, the meaty rabbit flavoured kind that comes in its own gravy and NOT the hake and salmon one; I really must speak to the servant about that)...

Where was I? Oh yes. Ahem. So, for the sake of posterity, greater interspecies relations and the chance of having one's face on the Whiskas tins in future, I will yield and write this down.

I woke up this morning at my usual time. I put my great age of nineteen (of which my servant is rightly respectful) down to the combination of early rising, plenty of cat food and nineteen hours sleep a day. You should try it sometime.

Speaking of sleep, now that I've finally trained my servant to let me sleep on the couch, I find this location to be much more pleasant than my previous one. Even with the sheepskin beanbag, the kitchen is not the most comfortable of places, and one's servant would inadvertently wake one up when carrying one through. Note to self: on the next of my nine lives, do not come back as the owner of an insomniac.

I gently suggested to my servant that it was time she fed me. This suggestion did not go down too well. It rarely does. I've yet to get her trained to the point of leaving the door open and allowing one to sleep on the bed. Honestly, crap behind one TV and piss in the corner of one room and one's marked for life!

When my servant FINALLY deigned to appear, I repeated my query in a polite, yet firm voice, only to be called 'noisy'. Well, I suppose I was, but if the servant doesn't leap to my command immediately, the reasonable-and ONLY-assumption is that she hasn't heard me. So of course I must repeat myself a little louder.

My servant claimed that it was 'too dark to see'. Well, I had no problems. It's not one's fault that one's servants have such inferior eyesight. My servant (I think she has a name among the other servants but I could never be bothered to learn it; my mother always said that once you name them, you start getting attached to them and then there really is no hope) then ignored my heartfelt cries and went into the room with the furry floor that I'm not allowed in. Since there's so much water in there, I don't think I'd like it, but I wouldn't mind the chance to prove this. Anyway, when I heard the running water, I knew I was in for a long wait; my servant always spends at least an hour in there.

When she came out, I FINALLY got breakfast...fishy Felix. Ugh. I think I'd rather go hungry.

Then I had to watch as my servant put on the wire things on her ears. I don't know what they do, but they're connected by a long string to a black box with buttons and knobs on it, and I can hear noises coming from them. I've been trying to teach my servant a new game; I bap the string and she jerks it. So far no luck-she really is most untrainable. Though she has been in my service since I was six weeks old, and I'm twenty this year. Maybe I'm just too sentimental for my own good.

The servant was also talking to another human on the speaking-bone. I hope her mother's coming soon; she brings better food, and plenty of it. I also hope she doesn't bring the dog. Those animals have no sense of dignity or pride. They fawn all over humans, washing them as much as possible, given the chance.

Then again, perhaps I'm being too hard. I mean, humans were obviously put on this world to serve cats, so maybe dogs were put on this world to serve humans. I'm sure I don't know what kind of animal serves dogs, but then, I suppose somebody has to be at the bottom of the social ladder.

Right now, it's just after supper. I know it seems to jump, but not much happens when I'm asleep. At least, not much of any importance. I'm lying on the couch, waiting for my servant to sit down and serve as my chair. One thing she does well is rub; somehow she always manages to get that spot on top of my head and under my jaw...ask any cat you like and they'll tell you that's the spot. Behind the ears is good, but we can all reach there.

What was I saying? Oh yes. The minute the servant's done typing this, I think I'll try and get across to her (yet again) the complexities of Bap-The-Long-String-Connected-To-The-Box.

Might need to think up a new name for it though. Perhaps inspiration will strike in a dream. The servant has a lot of pictures on the light-box, which usually means she'll be busy for hours. Time for another nap...

998 words

Author/Servant's Note: I have had some people email to ask how she is, so I decided to post this footnote. Sadly, Purdy passed away in October 2004, three or four months after this was written, at the great age of nineteen and a half. I came through that morning and found her lying on her favourite cushion; she'd died in her sleep. I do miss her, but at least she went peacefully. I can always read this to help me remember