The Catdiva Monologues Volume III

Volume III: The Suitcase, The Silence, and The Chicken.

By Akela Jean Underland, She of heavy heart, unlicked Ears and untouched Biscuits.

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C-ACT I: THE GREAT DISPAWMENT

I saw it this morning.
The suitcase.

It stared at me out of the corner zip.

Mocking me.

Change and betrayal looms in its corners- silent traitors.
I have sniffed each one many times before. And here I am again.
Waiting for the abandonment.

Mother dares whisper sweet nothings to me,
stroking my cheek
“I love you, darling. You’re so beautiful”
But I have heard that lie before. Of course I am mighty fine but I can see through the treachery. The sweet lullaby tone that sends me off to slumber now, tainted by the horrible truth. She will leave me.

I can feel it. Even the universe can feel my sorrow.

It too is goading me.

There is rain trickling down the windows in pathetic fallacy.
But I shall not be pitied by pathetic weather.
And yet, I cannot not go outside. Not because I fear the rain.
No.
Because I refuse to give smug nature the satisfaction. And of course I it would be a tragedy to dampen my soft fur.

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C-ACT II: THE INTRUDER RETURNS

He is here.

The other black one.
Rogit. He looks far too much like Poe except of course for the rather masculine appendages dangling from his nether regions. Appalling strumpet that he is. No shame. No shame!

He slinks through the door like he owns the dang biscuits.
Poe ignores him, of course.
But then she would ignore a revolution unless it affected her chicken quota.

I see him.
I see him sniffing.
I see him lurking.

I see him sidling up to the mothers.

He has touched my box.
He has sat on my blanket.

He has eaten my biscuits.
And yet Mother coos at him.
The betrayal is biblical. She is my Judas. I can no longer squint at her with affection.

I can only scowl in these, the darkest of times.

And still, stilll with such woe descending on my elegant shoulder -Mogs, my once trust lacky, refuses to groom me.
No licks for the weary. No comfort for the cursed. No solace to be found.

C-ACT III: THE CHICKEN DESCENDS

It is inside.

The chicken.
Not a dream.
Not a metaphor.
A literal, feathery emissary of fleas.

It entered the kitchen. Scrounging no doubt.
It looked at me.
It blinked.

I did not blink back.
I am not weak.

No one seems alarmed.
Mother says, “She’s just visiting, darling, be nice.”
Be nice? As if poultry casually invading the sanctum is somehow normal.
I begin to suspect I am the only sane entity in this household.

In fact, I know that I am the only one in possession of my wits.

Curtain Call: Reflections from the Arm of the Couch

And so I sit.
Unlicked. Unloved. Undone.
But never ungraceful.

I shall not be moved.
Not by suitcases, nor Rogit, nor poultry.

I shall simply
be
inconsolable
…until dinnertime.

Akela Jean Underland.
Empress of the Sofa.
The Purrsecuted.
The Eternal Pearl in a House of Peanuts.

(Cue thunder. Light a candle. Let a single biscuit fall. Fade out.)