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

Volume VII: Pawprints of Betrayal, Bristles of War
By Akela Jean Underland, Duchess of the Damp Towel, Heiress to the Unloved Pillow, Radiator Recluse Emerita

C-ACT I: THE PATS OF ENVY

It is five a.m.
And he—Mowgli the Meek, the Moon-faced mooching little betrayer—has adopted my tactic.

He pats.
He coos.
He rubs their faces like some simpering little orphan in a Dickensian melodrama. “Oh please mother, can I have some more…” Why I…I could…”

And they, those treasonous, salmon mousse-brained bi-ambulators. love it!
“Oh Mowgli,” they giggle. “He’s so gentle,” they sigh.
I watch from the basin, stewing.
My methods, once revered, now co-opted by a low-energy puddle with toe beans and a moustache made for the right wing fascist who I refuse to name.

The Boy Died.

Do they not remember my 5am vigils?
My commitment to vengeance?
My paws, forged in betrayal, tapping out Morse code across their cheeks?

I. Am. The. Blueprint.
And now he gets the strokes. The kisses. The love.

I am livid.
And also slightly hungry. But mostly livid.

C-ACT II: ROGIT RETURNS, WITH INTENTIONS

Floppy Rogit.
Neighbourhood dribble in chief.
The scent of bin and bargain biscuits.

He came back again.
Plopped onto my courtyard like a collapsed beach umbrella.

And flirted.

Yes.
He flopped.
Whisker-twitching.
A purr that sounded like a dying lawnmower.

I turned. Slowly.
He blinked.
I narrowed my eyes.
He rolled.
I stepped over him. Elegantly of course,

It was not a meet-cute.
It was a warning a warning.

C-ACT III: THE INCIDENT WITH THE BRUSH

And if all that is not enough.

That I have not endured.

There I was.
Minding my own misery. Licking my leg with the dignified restraint of a war widow.

When it attacked.

The House Brush.
Common. Plastic. Brown like stale veal.
Launched itself at my head.

I bolted.
They laughed.

Laughed. How dare they?

A war crime.

I have filed a report with Bastet.
There will be consequences.

Curtain Call: A Final Word

Let Mowgli purr.
Let Rogit flop.
Let the human lodgers laugh their wretched laughs and scatter their crumbs of affection.

I am Akela Jean Underland.
I do not pander.
I do not forget.

I rise, each day, from the basin anew—vengeful, silky, untamed. Graceful.

(Cue thunder. Cue the brush falling mysteriously behind the washing machine. Cue a single mournful meow that echoes through the vent.)