“Of all God’s creatures, there is only one that cannot be made slave of the leash. That one is the cat. If man could be crossed with the cat it would improve the man, but it would deteriorate the cat.”
― Mark Twain
How any of you love cats, and know that your cat has you totally under their control?
How many of you know this but are happy to be it’s eternal servant and virtual slave?
Quite a few of you, I’d imagine, it’d termed “owning” a cat, if such a thing is possible, and by all accounts. it had been a behavioral pattern for thousands of years, but what would you think if your cat, your sweet little puddy tat, not only spoke in your language, but wrote to you, blogged you, created an ongoing story serialisation, and showed it had an infinitely far superior cognitive brain?
We all know that this would be dream of course, for cat’s can’t talk, or write, think, or get drunk, but let me introduce you to so such a nightmare, and then to Clawsie, Caterwauling Clawsie, a pure bred Russian Blue cat who, with all her poise, elegance, natural feline power grace and beauty, manages to entrance, yet control us all.
Imagine, if you will, standing in a very large and spartan wooden floored room. The room is silent but in front of you there is a chair with a cat sitting on it, and beside the chair a long dressing mirror. You are feeling queasy, your head is splitting in two with the mother of all pounding headaches, and for some reason your limbs seem to be operating on a different level of consciousness to your brain. You stagger forward, remorselessly drawn towards the mirror, with the cat silently watching you all the time. You touch, stumble, and then fall through the mirror, and look back toward the now strangely distant room from the other side
Ok you think, so there was somehow no glass in the mirror frame, it was just an optical illusion but then you feel a set of claws digging into your shoulder; the cat, now at your level of intelligence and cognitive speech and ability, has joined you from the other side. She admonishes you for your stupidity and points out all your human frailties with a power and pertinence that find it very hard to bear. She also points out aspects that you have never thought of so very quietly to begin with, but then ever more increasingly, your mind begins to scream.
Then you wake up, it’s just been nightmare, and you realise that it is a Sunday morning and that this is but an unpleasant reaction to what was a thoroughly good night the night before. Three problems still remain though. You still do have that oh so terrible hangover, your once docile but now overly assertive cat is two inches from your nose and aggressively staring at you, and you suddenly realise that it is three hours past her feeding time. At least she cannot talk to though, so after stumbling both in and out of the bathroom, and staunching the flow of blood from your genuinely claw savaged and profusely bleeding shoulder, your normal daily routine begins. Just another Sunday, you say to yourself, as you trip up over the cactus in the hallway. Just another post-mortem from your over loving partner as you see one of your friends, in a dress, sprawled out on the conservatory floor, and just another reason to do the whole thing again in a weeks’ time.
Imagine, however, if that self-same cat came back through the mirror with you, and armed with an excellent brain, a battle hardened, an alcohol sodden yet durable liver, pens, and a box of writing paper. What if, in addition, she had acquired the gift of cognition, an absolute mastery of rich free-flowing English, and a mind and tongue that was hewn from the very winds screaming across the Great Russian steppes and plains. What might she say if, living in England, she found and then wrote to a long-lost sister living in Russia, how would her children behave, and what kind of husband would manage to stand by her side.
Here she comes now. She has been fed, after a little gentle persuasion of her supposed Lord and Master, and now she is sitting at the table with a sheet of paper before her and a pen resolutely held in her hand.
Welcome to the land and life of Clawsie, gentle reader. Welcome to Queen Clawsie, now Queen of Little Purfleet cum Tiddlecombe in sleepy Somerset, and then, later, much later, Queen Clawsie of Man
Categories: Caterwauling Clawsie