I eat, therefore I am.

And I’m truly distraught that my people are pawning the cheap cat food off on me for regular meal time. They buy it in big bags from discount retail chains for the outside cat Carrot, a lithe orange tabby who flirts with me through the family room window. He’s a mere peasant who likes to sit in people’s laps. I am the queen. I deserve high quality expensive kibble available only from pet stores.

Some may think I come by my rounded figure due to a thyroid malfunction, but they would be wrong. I work hard to be the zaftig queen that I am. My people assume I’m only eating the measly portion of Purina One for Adult Indoor Cats™ that they painstakingly measure out every morning. However, I also snack on the outside cat’s cheap bag food when I can sneak out onto the porch (while the woman is unloading groceries). During the past year, I am proud to say I have successfully captured pizza, roasted chicken, chicken fingers, donuts, frosted sugar cookies (bit through the plastic wrap to get to them) and French fries when my people were distracted. Toilet paper (unused) is a nice appetizer on occasion and readily available.

Sometimes Carrot, the outdoor cat who often hunts for my people, runs up the tree near the back window to show off his athletic prowess. From my spot atop the couch, surveying the family room savannah and the outdoors, I glance at him with disdain, lick my torti-colored paws, then cross them to show I do not care to run up trees, chase birds, and leave their decapitated bodies on the back porch.

My life inside is far from the prison Carrot thinks. My people bow to my every need. They even clean my litter box. All I do in return is swat at the ribbon they occasionally dangle in front of my face. If I’m in the mood, I might swipe at it twice. If not, I stare at them until they tire of their feeble attempts to dictate my entertainment schedule.

Schedules are important to me. My typical nap schedule, for example, involves an intricate balance of time and place. The times I most prefer to nap are early morning, mid morning, noon, early afternoon, mid afternoon, late afternoon, early evening, mid-evening, and late evening. Then I go to bed. My favorite napping spots are atop freshly folded clothes (preferably warm from the dryer), across papers and notebooks small child needs to complete her homework, and inside small child’s staged and decorated Polly Pocket house. For some reason, only one paw fits on the bed and most of my body is in the backyard.

As refreshing as frequent napping and feeding are, I do, on occasion, entertain myself in other ways. When the holiday season arrives, I like to lurk under the tree the woman pieces together in the foyer. As my people walk by, I pounce on them. Another good lurking spot is next to the door small child exits from when barely awake. Small child is my favorite target. If I’m in a playful mood, I might fight a few rubber bands, chase dice down the hall, or bat at those shiny balls the woman puts on the Christmas tree. How I love the holidays! Watching those ornaments fall and shatter on the hard wood floor is a pleasure beyond compare.

Another favorite activity is excessive grooming, followed by occasional hair ball retching, which I strategically place on footpaths throughout the house. What good is a hairball that no one can step on, I ask you? I also enjoy tripping my people on the stairs, playing hide-n-seek (only when a delivery man leaves the front door open OR when I sense I have an appointment at the vet), and last but certainly not least, I adore sniffing things that stink, such as small child’s tennis shoes, grandpa’s white socks, and the man person’s sandals after he mows the lawn.

Of course, my life has its share of irritations. Shut doors drive me to distraction. I fear the woman when she chases me down and picks me up to love me and speak to me as if I were her baby. Just thinking about it makes me shudder. I will list for you the many categories of people I do not like: People who want me to sit in their laps. People who won’t share their French fries. People who won’t get out of bed in the morning to feed me. People who don’t clean out my litter box in a timely fashion. The worst people of all, though, are veterinarians and their helpers who weigh, poke, and inject me despite my clear discomfort and annoyance expressed through repeated hissing and biting.

Farewell for now, my subjects. I hear the woman walking down the hall. She is either returning to her computer to write, or she’s looking to capture, squeeze, and love me.