The Catdiva Monologues Volume VI: Return of the Rogit, Rise of the Miserable Sun. Descent.

Volume V: The Doors Are Shut, The Betrayal Wide Open
By Akela Jean Underland, Duchess of the Damp Towel, Heiress to the Unloved Pillow, Radiator Recluse Emerita.

C-ACT I: THE RETURN OF THE BETRAYERS

They returned.

Sashaying in as if nothing has happened.

From Turkey, they said. Turkey.
As if that explains the abandonment.
As if sunburn and foreign meats justify the crime.
They waltzed in—flushed, sweaty, overfed—and dared to assume that I would engage in their wanton disregard for my misery and suffering.

“Akelaaaaaa,” they cooed. Especially the first. Apology after the fact is no apology at all. If you were in fact sorry, you would not have done it.
The syllables of my name had not curdled in my soul like old milk.
Denial is neither apology nor admission. I expected. Demanded both.

And worse still. So much worse. They came back showered in the scent of STREET CAT. Yes, eau du vagabond. It turned my stomach and my heart in equal measure.

I did not move.
I did not acknowledge.
I remained poised beneath the table like a Victorian widow on the morning after the night if the unfortunate suicide of my woe begotten former husband.

Blanketless. Betrayed. And Boiling.

Turkey can keeps its sun. There is no shelter here for my afflictions.

C-ACT II: THE ROGIT EMERGES

Then—
Then, as if their stinky bin cat return were not insult enough—

Rogit reappeared. Wet napkin that he is.

Limping. Panting. Dripping like a defective tap.
He flopped onto my courtyard with the grace of a drowned otter, leaving a trail of damp stupidity in his wake.

I made eye contact. He meowed.

I blinked once.

He blinked.

I blinked again.

He attempted a head nudge me

Me?

I do not succumb to head butts. Especially from another streetcat. That kind have already brought an unwashable stain to my home. My place of comfort.

I exited.

This is not a circus.
I am not a side act.
And he, he is not a companion—he is a feline embarrassment.

C-ACT III: THE SUN ATTACKS

And then, of course, there is the matter of the sun.

It burns, Bastet. It burns like the betrayl of my once mothers. Stings.
It radiates into my belly where my fur has thinned from anguish.
There is no cool place left to linger.
Even the floorboards hiss like a kettle when I lie down searching for respite.

They open windows. They say it’s “lovely out.”

They are deranged. Streetcats have infiltrated their puny human minds.

This is not lovely. This is the AGA of betrayal set to broil.

And I, my dear friend, am being broiled.

Mowgli melted into a puddle of fur on the bookshelf.
Poe is muttering in Latin and accusing the radiator of conspiracies against chicken.

I have retreated to the shower basin. The plastic basin, at least, understands me.

Curtain Call: A Warning

Let it be known:

You may have returned with trinkets and apologies.
You may offer me ribboned treats and cool compresses.
You may sing my name in arias of regret—

But I am Akela Jean Underland.

I remember.

I seethe. Silently. Elegantly. Supremely.

(Cue violin. Cue electric fan. Cue dramatic flop onto the only shaded tile left.)