This is Page 6 from the book Diary of a Buddhist Cat
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The final dining option is some small, sandy-coloured nuts that are salty and arranged in an inartistic manner on a small saucer. These are crunchy too and I decide it’s best to swallow them whole rather than use my gnashers to break them into smaller pieces. A fragment of one of them gets stuck in my teeth and I’m not sure how to get rid of it until I realise I can use one of the spikes on the green things in my Litter Tray to remove the offending item and sure enough, after a couple of false starts which result in a sore gum, I impale the brown item on the spike. I have a good aim sometimes even in cramped conditions on top of the cupboard.
I return to my bed and consider if that was breakfast, then I hope lunch and dinner will be better. Obligate carnivores such as I need meat to survive. I fall asleep and dream of eating yaks. In my dream, someone caresses my head when I’m chewing a yak’s leg on the Tibetan Plateau, and I wake up to see the male human stroking my head.
“Come on, Freddie,” he says, “you must be bursting and need to pee, let’s show you your Litter Tray and breakfast dish. Oh, what’s this, your fur is sticky and smells of plum jam? How did you get that on you?”
I miaow because I have already used the litter tray and eaten breakfast, which is how I got the jam on my fur. But as is the way he ignores me. We walk past the cupboard where my litter tray is and the kitchen counters where my breakfast was and down some stairs into the basement, as they call it, the part of the house that’s under the ground. There’s a small area where Gemma is already eating. She gives me a Sneer Level 2. Apparently, my breakfast is in the big white bowl, kibbles, and some meat out of a tin. The kibbles are for lunch too, so I shouldn’t eat them all at once. The male human puts me down in a large blue tray full of cat litter and says, “This is your litter tray, Freddie, and the red one is Gemma’s litter tray. Don’t use that because she will get very upset.” Gemma gives me a Sneer Level 3 just to emphasise the point.
I am a little embarrassed because I have made two incorrect assumptions. There are no green bulbous plants in this litter tray and no spikes to surprise me if I am not paying attention. The kibbles and cat food taste nice, a lot better than what I consumed earlier in the morning.
Now I have a problem and to cover my embarrassment, I face the wall and ponder. How do I get my poo out of the tray on top of the cupboard and into the litter tray in the basement? Or should I leave it in the hope it will decompose? Or perhaps they’ll blame a rat or a large mouse? Maybe they’ll blame Gemma? That wouldn’t be a good thing. Gemma would make my life not worth living. I resolve to sleep on it for the rest of the morning and then explore in the afternoon. What I need is a small bag to place the offending articles in.
Gemma strolls off, having consumed all her food. She hasn’t left me any, which is most inconsiderate of her, after all I am a growing cat and suffered the recent trauma of moving to a new house and so need some comfort food and some soul food for my soul should it need to depart today for another body. I hope my soul doesn’t do that, but I should prepare it for its journey should the need arise. My mum told me to always consider others and I do my best to uphold her standards. I head upstairs.
Suddenly, Gemma accosts me at the bottom of the stairs and gives me Sneer Level 3. Again. That’s twice in 10 minutes.
“You are an ignorant and stupid cat, don’t you recognise used tea bags, crackers, toasted bread, olives, and peanuts? Why did you eat those? That’s not our food you ignoramus, don’t do that again, our food’s down here not on the kitchen counter. We don’t eat upstairs. Don’t give those fascists any further reasons to mistreat us, Freddie.”
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