The Life and Opinions of Bosse the Cat

       Life is cruel. That is my opinion. Full stop. Were I born in other times or places, I might have been a god, or a sacred animal, or a divine protector of humanity, or whatever. Even being a common cat is a blessing. I have all the assets for that. Four paws, abundant fur, a fluffy tail, gorgeous whiskers, two neat ears, magical and common sense. So why, I ask the feline heavens, why on earth do those dumb people treat me like anything but a cat? When two humans took me out of a basket where I cuddled with my brethren at the Mora marketplace, they clearly mistook me for a rag doll. They gave me to their three cubs as a toy. And those whelps, those three troll changelings use me exactly like that. As a toy. To dress up, to feed play-dough, to play hairdresser salon. To humiliate and bother me endlessly. The house is rather big, but there’s no place to hide from those monsters. By the hard way, I learned that the best way to spare myself extra pain is to behave like a doll—to hang listless and silent so that the monsters get bored sooner. Besides, the house owners (I can’t bring myself to consider them masters) must have thought that I’m a dog. Why else would they name me after a dog? There are photos of their ancestors on the walls, which feature a mop-like canine disgrace underwritten as “Bosse”. It does not help to mew or to spit up hairballs; no one is going to rename an obvious cat into Maugnus or Tiger. Even Mittens would be better than silly Bosse. Well, there was one exception, one acceptable human. He used to drop in and entertain the cubs. They’d scream, “Yay, cousin Emil!” and leave me in peace for a couple of hours. That alone is worth eternal gratitude. And he treated me like a human should treat a cat, by stroking my back (strictly with the fur) and scratching my tummy. Even if he combed me, his manner was much more delicate than the touch of the Monster Triplets. But nothing is perfect in this world. “Cousin Emil” smelled like hell. Soap, smoke, some acrid chemicals. It would make me sick, and sick me would make him say “urgh” and flee. Another of his shortcomings was that he might not be back, ever. The house owners think I just like to sleep on papers and books because paper is warmer than a bare table. They would never guess that I can read. I’ve read every piece of paper in this cold, sad house, and I know they have staged an expedition to the Silent World. They were tight on budget, and I was absolutely sure they’d hire me as a cat. Never overestimate human intelligence like this. They did not see a cat in me again. And now their project is doomed. I could have been a Grade A cat if relevant people had noticed me in that basket. I could have earned respect and beef by killing trolls and beasts and warning hapless humans of danger. I’d agree even for a Grade B, my natural genius covers that rank. I know what trolls, beasts, and giants look, sound, or smell like. Sometimes I can discern that stench on the shoes of the housewife—she used to spend the daytime in a place stinking of grosslings. But it was not just theory. I had training, too. Sometimes the kitchen trash bucket smells so much like a beast that I can’t keep from attacking it and murdering it ruthlessly. All the necessary instincts are in place. The enemy is cast down in a split second, its innards splattered all over the floor. My humans have nothing to fear. But they don’t understand their luck. They scream at me and lock me in a cold closet for hours until their cubs let me out (only to harass me further). And Cousin Emil won’t distract them again. Last time I saw him just for an hour or so, together with a pawful of other strange people. One strange, thin guy even saw a cat in me. Too bad he thought himself to be a cat, too. Well, his shiny-shadow had a catlike shape, it hissed at me and shoved me off the table with cosy and interesting papers so that the guy could sleep on my spot, warmed by me personally. As if he were an alpha cat. The gall he had. I did not complain, I was above puny offences. Besides, his shadow-cat was twice as tall as me, so it was only wise not to pee into his boots. The other two, a younger and an older woman, were even worse. They ignored me. Like I was an empty spot and not a solid ten pounds of a feline, with claws and all. I would have definitely peed into their boots, but I did not have time. They came in my sleeping hours; they left before my business hours began. And any cat with any self-respect won’t bother to move outside of his or her business hours. So, they left without me, but with Cousin Emil, and he didn’t even brush my fur coat properly. Traitor. May trolls spit on his shiny fur. Well, the house owners returned in a few days with another pack of strange humans. For whatever reason, they brought back the older woman who had ignored me. Nothing will save her boots this time. Then there was an old man without fur; he mistook me for a warming bottle and a plaster patch against sore joints, high blood pressure, and other infirmities of age. Me, a self-taught combat cat, as a medical appliance! But I knew the strategy. Act like what they deem you to be until they regret it. I applied acupuncture. It helped me. Not sure about the old bugger. And there was another guy who recognised a cat in me. He smelled a bit like the ignoring girl-woman and cat-guy, but he petted me alright. And most importantly, he distracted the Monster Triplets. But again, nothing is perfect. What are those people, why can’t they have normal shiny-shadows matching their bodies? His shiny-shadow looked like a big bird of prey, and it mistook me for a mouse and attacked. I didn’t train to fight wayward shiny-shadows larger than me. Give me a troll or even a giant, and I’ll extinguish it. But this… So for a tiny moment, I acted like a mouse would. That is, I fled under the kitchen table. As I am reminded every day, life is cruel and embarrassing. I was wronged, but it’s the bird-guy who had many days of sleeping hours finally, while I was left alone to the lions, that is, to the baby monsters. I resign. All I can do is wait till they tear me into tiny cat fur pieces and save me from further misery. *** I believed the rest of my days would be filled with misery not worth mentioning, but here it is, an Intermission (or maybe a Prologue) The humans sent Outside would never survive without a cat, but they picked a puny feral kitten and survived just barely. Those were snippets of news I heard over the radio in the living room. Then there were more telegrams, letters, newspapers, and other papers coming, and I lay on them all to get the whole picture. The team is returning with a triumph, and the house owners are celebrating and planning their next expeditions. And this is my chance to become a true combat cat. This time, I will not wait for stupid humans to choose me. I’ll volunteer, even if it means that I’ll have to act like a human. Like one particular useless human who happened into the team by hiding himself in a crate of food. It was a stupid mistake for him; it will be a cunning deed for me to smuggle myself into the team equipment. Hopefully, there will be more of that stuff next time, not just one overloaded wheelbarrow with no place for a respectable, full-bodied cat. And there may be people in the field, who know a cat when they see one. They’ll pet me, feed me, obey when I tell them to freeze or move. Oh, yes, moving. There is still an issue with sleeping and business hours. What if the next expedition departs at an inappropriate time again? Any cat with any self-respect… I’ll think about that tomorrow. Now I have to climb a wardrobe and hide if I want to live to see another expedition. The Monster Triplets draw near…