The Truffle Diaries – infidelity and abandonment

Day eight of captivity.

I am craving the hunt, and fresh mice. Or even a mouthful of vole. I’ve been watching the birds on the feeders attached to the fence, succulent, fat little tweeters, but these fools won’t let me at them! The captors feed me cat food, but there’s no blood in it, and certainly no fun.

I have now made two attempts at freedom with fast dashes out of the door when my captors attention is diverted. Sadly hunger has driven me back on both occasions. I am a wild, magnificent hunter, but I do have a soft spot for a salmon yoghurt licky and I have not yet mastered opening the sachets. Besides, I have heard a rumour that there is fresh fish for tea tonight.

This mornings escape meant that I could hunt. I managed to catch and eat a squeaky in the tussocks of long grass on the croft before allowing myself to be tempted back inside. It was delicious.

I’ve been investigating the curtains as a possible source of distraction. They appear to be rather flimsily held up with little plastic clips which I frankly consider fair game. I may wait until my captors leave me alone next time and rearrange them for them. I feel sure that they would be grateful.

I saw some photos of my previous Floof Meisters on my captors phone this afternoon, and the emotions all came flooding back. My people! They were smiling in the sun somewhere, oblivious to my plight. And the final indignity – they were with another feline! A scruffy looking street cat was sharing their sun lounger. The horror.

I am devastated by their infidelity. I have made a double entry in my Journal of Retribution, the deepest of grooves scratched with my sharpest claw. I have traced a black border around the entry with harvested Tigger fur to highlight its gravity. This is indeed a dark day. This kind of entry is reserved for Those Who Choose To Live Deliciously Without Me. Traitors. Unfaithful beasts.

I shall not shed any more tears over them. I shall take myself off to the clothing pile in the bedroom to lick my wounds and plan my sad revenge.

I cannot bring myself to write more.