The small tuxedo cat watches and waits. Something is wrong. Lunch is very late. “Mrow?” she asks Frank. “Feed me?” Frank doesn’t answer. He seems very intent on his nap on the floor. It’s an odd place for Frank to nap, but it’s one of her favorite spots. Maybe he’s finally learning from her.
Time passes. She’s getting really hungry; it’s almost time for dinner. She tries again, “Mrow?!” Frank still doesn’t answer, so she tickles his nose with a paw. Nothing. She retreats to the windowsill to watch the birds outside and imagine how tasty they are.
Hey, what’s this? A fire engine! The firemen are coming this way. Maybe they’ll feed her. She greets them as they come through the door: “Mrow! Thank goodness you’re here. I’m starving!” They all ignore her and begin trying to wake up Frank.
That’s not so bad. If they wake Frank, he can feed her. That’s his job.
The firemen have a talking box. It beeps and says weird things like “No Shock Advised.” Of course no shock is advised! Cat food is advised! The cat is hungry!
They open a large red bag. Perhaps that’s where they carry their cat food. The tuxedo sticks her head inside. It smells funny, like plastic and medicine, but no cat food. The firemen shoo her away. How ungrateful! Don’t they know dinner guests should always bring a gift for the host?
A pair of men in white shirts arrive. They have a smell about them, like the vet’s office. She’s not so sure about them, but they’re trying to wake Frank too. They can’t be all bad. She wanders into the group to help. After all, she has years of experience waking him up, and it’s time for dinner.
One of the men gently lifts her and sets her aside with a pat on the head, while the other stares at a small TV screen he’s brought and mumbles something about “asystole.” She retreats to the table, a spot safely above the many pairs of dangerous black boots milling around, and she watches. Frank seems to be taking a really deep nap this afternoon.
“Mrow?! Frank, wake up. It’s almost dinner time, and we seem to have company. Frank?”
She continues to watch from the table as the men slide a stretcher under Frank and carry him away. She’s beginning to think something is really wrong here. “Hey Frank? Frank, where are you going? I’m hungry here! Someone needs to feed the cat! Frank?”
2 thoughts on “Cats don’t have owners, they have servants”
We prefer to be described as Staff, servants isn’t quite right.
Just to reassure those who have commented on the side, I’d like to remind everyone that my musings here are fictionalized. As far as I know, the cat who inspired this one is doing just fine. No animals were harmed in the making of this blog.
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