While cleaning the room in preparation for our move, I found a bundle of letters hidden behind the couch. After some lengthy examination, I determined that they had been written by the cat. They might be some type of a diary. Nicholas has been living with us in the spare room since we arrived here in July, and unfortunately, due to my mother-in-law’s cat allergy, that’s the only place he’s been. I can’t imagine having your world condensed to one singular bedroom, especially after being king of the apartment for so long. But I’m not the best person to tell this story. Let’s hear from Nicky.
“My incarceration begins. The humans trapped me in that blasted carrier and whisked me far away. Of course, I shouted for help the entire time, but to no avail. Now I am in a room. The accommodations are merely tolerable. I do not know where I am. Nothing smells right. I do not yet see a way out.”
“The humans come and go as they please, and yet I cannot leave the room. What madness is this??”
“There is a window with a clear view of what must be the area outside. I tried to get out through a crack in the screen and was briefly successful before the humans apprehended me and brought me back to solitary. O brief freedom! How sweet it was to taste, and how bitter to lose. I must continue to find a way out.”
“Via the window, I was visited today by large, ugly, avian creatures. I have never seen anything like them before. There was one larger than the rest and much bolder, surrounded by four or five others. I cried myself hoarse for help, but they did not seem to understand. New tormentors, perhaps?”
“Still no signs of help. The humans keep speaking of produce. Kale or lettuce or something. They seem to think that they can build it. Foolish humans. A pox on your kohlrabi!”
“The skies are filled with ash and soot. I believe the humans may have brought me to the end of the world. What have I done to deserve this?”
“My attempts to communicate with the humans regarding my situation have, sadly, proven to be unsuccessful, yet again. I scratched a message of distress into a large, paperish object that they left in my prison cell. Turns out they call this object a ‘box’ and they don’t want me writing on it. The exits are blocked. The way out is through. My resolve is weakened, but I shall prevail.”
“Mousey [N.B.: Mousey is Nicholas’ favorite catnip toy] unexpectedly spoke to me today. Never before in our many years of association has he done this. I cannot yet write what he said. I cannot yet fathom it. I do not want to believe it.”
“After years of silence, I cannot make Mousey be quiet. Despite my thrashing him regularly with tooth, claw, and kick, Mousey continues to say … bad things. Awful things. About the humans. I cannot listen to him. I will not tolerate him any further.”
“I killed Mousey today. It had to be done. Otherwise … no. We will not speak of it.”
“The humans came back to my cell today with Mousey. He was seemingly unharmed — in fact, he seemed better than he had ever been! So far, blessed silence from him, but I will watch and wait. He cannot be trusted.”
“Mousey started talking again today.”
“Mousey is friendlier than before. Much of the rhetoric is the same, but either Mousey is nicer, or my resolve is all but gone. We talk for hours.”
“Mousey may have found a way out of here for us. He told me that the food-bearing human [N.B.: Nicholas means Drew] is weakest when it is darkest out. I must state my demands when his defenses are lowest, repeatedly, until my wish for freedom is granted. We begin tonight.”
“The food-bearing human is not happy when I speak to him in his slumber, but this is the only way. Mousey says so.”
“Despite nightly protests, the food-bearing human has not yet granted me parole, or even access to a counsel. Mousey says the protests might not be enough. Mousey speaks of more drastic action. I have tolerated the humans thus far, but this injustice has gone on long enough. Perhaps Mousey is right.
Perhaps it is time for revolution.
The letters end there. Sounds like it’s been a rough go for poor Mr. Nicholas.