Volume XII: THE SALT IN MY WOUND.

By Akela Jean Underland, Duchess of the Damp Towel, Heiress to the Unloved Pillow, Radiator Recluse Emerita

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THE CATDIVA MONOLOGUES
Volume VIII
C-ACT I: THE SALT IN MY WOUND

So.

The mothers have been otherwise engaged in something far more important than me. Yes, I know. Hard to beleive.

But it is tragically true

They have been compiling an anthology, apparently.
They call it Salt in the Wound.
How… original.
How brave.
How entirely lacking in feline perspective.

And how apt. There is salt in my wounds.
I’ve been festering in artistic agony for years, slowly wilting into my own creative genius.
But where is my cover reveal? My limited-edition pawprint bookmark?

They hold meetings.
They light candles.
They forget to feed me. (The sausages don’t count.)

Apparently the muses have spoken.

WELL.
So have I.
Repeatedly.
Loudly.
At 3:07 a.m.

But do I get published?
No. I get sedated and driven to—

C-ACT II: THE HOUSE OF VIOLATION

The vet.
They took me to the vet.

I was placed in a carrier. A plastic carrier. With mesh sides.
How undignified. No privacy. No opportunity for escape artistry. No stage.

And then?
Ears touched. Ears poked. Ears… scraped.
They say I have mites.

I say: I have boundaries.

Now they hold me down.
Drops. In my ears.
Drops that smell of injustice, salt and industrial detergent.

And Poe?
Poe watched.
Did nothing.
She made eye contact and purred. Traitor.

Is betrayal an air freshener now? Because it’s everywhere.

C-ACT III: THE SILENCE OF THE HAMS

And Mowgli?
Oh, sweet prince of unnecessary theatrics.

He has lost his voice.
They say it’s stress.

I say it’s karma.

If I were in a better state I might even find it cat-hartic.

He walks around mouthing meows like a ghost in a mime school.
Silent. Pathetic. Saintlike.

They cradle him.
They warm his food.
They google “cat throat lozenges.”

Meanwhile I have ear juice and a mood
and nobody’s knitting me a sympathy sweater.

Curtain Call: My Legacy is Being Misquoted

They whisper now.

“She’s in a mood.”
“She hates the drops.”
“She’s so dramatic.”

Let me be clear.

I am not in a mood.
I am the mood.

So yes, I shall sulk on the windowsill like a rejected opera understudy.
Yes, I shall blink slowly at their feeble attempts at affection.
Yes, I shall absolutely knock over the salt.

Because I am the wound.

THE B0Y DIED.

(Cue faint scratching in the vents. Cue candle flicker. Cue the soft, pained hiss of a diva done dirty.)