Mouse Rules the Day

Today began with a scandal.

Last night, I made my royal visit to the snack bar only to discover the unthinkable — it was empty. Empty! My so-called caregiver had forgotten to refill it. An outrage of historic proportions! Naturally, I left a fragrant decree on the floor — punishment must be swift.

Morning came. I stationed myself in the kitchen, face set to maximum indignation. Where’s the VIP service, woman? 

She appeared early — I smelled her — yet still no feast. Instead, she scurried about with her silly chores, ignoring my royal protests. My most eloquent yowls rang through the halls, but they failed to restart the food supply chain.

But treachery runs deep. When she grabbed me, I naturally assumed it was for kisses, apologies, and proper tribute. How naïve of me! Instead, I was shoved into the royal dungeon-on-wheels — the carrier. The ground began to tremble, and by the vibrations I knew: we were moving.

Did I mention I adore car rides? Back when my eyes worked, I loved surveying my moving kingdom, making faces at pedestrians and dogs alike, exploring every corner of our rolling palace, or basking in the sun on the back deck. Unlike certain commoners (looking at you, Bagheera the Bugbear), I never got car sick. Naturally — I’m flawless in every possible way.

Even now, I still revel in the thrill of the open road.

All the excitement was gone, though, when I realized I was in trouble. The journey ended in the dreaded House of Torment, also known as the vet’s court. A chamber of indignities, ruled by strange humans. There, I — Queen Supreme — was poked, prodded, and humiliated beyond measure. My royal body was weighed like a common potato, my mouth pried open without a single “may it please Your Majesty,” and — horror of horrors — a cold instrument pressed where the sun does not shine. 

Unknown hands were poking and prodding where they had no business. My royal patience prevented me from shredding them on the spot, so I merely pushed them away — politely, of course — but they ignored all warnings.

I suppose these peculiar humans just lurk, waiting for an unsuspecting soul to pass by, then dive in with cold fingers and sharp tools. More annoying than Bagheera the Boor or Fenya the Floofinator combined.

And the worst? I was stuck with them all alone for quite a while!

I even attempted the ultimate gesture of royal disdain — a dramatic throw-up right on their shiny floor. But the royal supplies were exhausted from fasting. Nothing came out. Damn it!

Suddenly, a bowl of something smelling vaguely meaty appeared before me. Not quite 3 Michelin stars, but perfectly edible. Who’d expect such indulgence in this dreadful place! I longed to devour it immediately, but noblesse oblige prevailed. I accepted the juicy apology with grace, doing it full justice to show no grudges lingered.

Things improved by the minute. The rough hands around me were so dazzled by my finesse that they argued over whose lap deserved the royal derriere. I resolved the dispute with perfect impartiality, distributing signs of attention evenly—after all, royalty never forgets manners, even with mere commoners.

When my caregiver returned to escort me back to the palace, I smelled meatloaf… and someone else’s perfume. Her jealousy was practically palpable. That’ll teach her a lesson in proper royal treatment!

I departed in glory, showered with compliments from the household. The ride home was a delight — especially knowing we were returning to our own throne.

Back at the palace, I made it clear to my companion that restitution was due for all my trials. 

She obeyed immediately — another royal feast appeared before me. Next came the ceremonial routine: polishing my royal robe, slightly sullied by the peasants, and sharpening claws to announce, “I have returned!” Ah, the sweet joy of being home!

Now… time for a sumptuous, decadent nap. See you in my dreams!