The Caprice of Mr Pussy
If I am looking more bleary-eyed than usual these days, it is not because I am sitting up any later writing my stories, but because Mr Pussy insists on waking me at dawn at this season of the year. The first yowl usually wakes me from my slumber in the glimmering of daylight, yet if I should try to deny it, descending quickly back to my former depths of sleep, a louder, more insistent cry tells me that he will not be ignored.
If I should persist in feigning sleep, he will extend his claw and reach up to the bedside bookshelf to hook the copy of King Lear by the spine and tug it off in one stroke to crash down onto the floor – employing a particular choice of title that I have yet to understand fully.
Then I open my eyes momentarily in weary exasperation to face his pitiful expression of need, quelling my anger. The question rises in my mind, did I put out any food for Mr Pussy last night? Now, in my half-awake moment of emotional vulnerability, the seed of doubt is sown and sympathy aroused for Mr Pussy, pleading for his rations whilst I indulge my luxuriant ease. But I am capable of indifference to his pain, rolling over in bed to seek another forty winks – even though experience has taught me that Mr Pussy will respond by running up the covers and leaping on my back with the agility of a mountain goat, so that he may repeat his yowl directly into my ear.
Thus I have learnt not to roll over, instead – without opening my eyes – I extend a crooked forefinger in an attempt to pacify Mr Pussy through petting, stroking him beneath his chin and on his brow – provoking a loud and emotional purring and snakelike twisting of the neck. Making a sound like his engine is revving, Mr Pussy bares his teeth and rubs them up against my finger several times in glee, which causes him ecstatic delight and coats my finger in saliva. He may repeat this action several times with an accumulating sense of excitement, glorying in the moment, knowing now that it is only a matter of time before I recognise that it is simpler to bow to his will than to resist.
Submitting to Mr Pussy’s inexorable persuasion, I stumble to the kitchen and commonly discover plenty of food in his dish – revealing that I have been played, his ruse was an exercise in pure manipulation, a power game. Too weary to recognise the humiliation I have suffered, I climb back into bed, put King Lear back on the shelf and resume my slumber.
When I wake hours later, Mr Pussy is stretched out on the quilt, oblivious to me rising. Yet if I should wake him, he stretches out in pleasure. Mr Pussy has every reason to feel secure, because each night he tests me and confirms his control. Mr Pussy can relax in the knowledge that he is training me to become obedient to his will, and in my weakness I comply. I let him get away with murder.
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mr. p, rampant on a field of fab quilt!
off topic, please excuse, my apologies to mr. p, i wonder if you knew there was an alexander mcqueen retrospective in NYC, to whose opening sarah burton flew immediately after her apotheosis at the royal wedding?
this most amazing dress — mcqueen has a whole history with lace, very interesting — was one of the first of his lace dresses (duchess waity’s was the very wan frankenstein descendent of these mcqueen lace artworks). one of the asst. designers says the lace was bought in brick lane, then “torn”, as burton described the same process of applique of lace cut outs to waity’s skirt.
always love to hear brick lane mentioned at the met.
http://blog.metmuseum.org/alexandermcqueen/dress-highland-rape/
Mr. Pussy is a very lovely boy, and the twin of my cat, Shady.
Enjoying this blog very much.
three cheers for mr pussy , guardian of spitalfieldslife!
Beautiful cat!
And there I was thinking that I had learned all there was about operant conditioning at uni, but didn’t really appreciate it until my cat began her games at that time of night as well.
I think you are let off quite lightly. I have 3 mogies and they all play me with tactics which I dont always understand, rather like trying to pacify a crying baby and not succeeding!
I theenk Meester Poossy ees my brordhair?
Bod I waghe the yoomans larng before dawn, een the dark, an’ eef they lefd foo’ por me een my bowl, I woul’ ead eed all ad wornce. I am berber’ hongree cad.
Pleease geeb my feleeceetations to Senor Poossy.
If you met my cat
Don’t try to stroke her fur,
She doesn’t like the touch
But much she does prefer
To be treated as the Mistress
Of my humble domain,
Should you stay aloof
She may let you remain.
I love cats but not on my bed
sally flood
sally flood
why dont you do a t shirt of mr pussy so mr pussy fans can recognise each other
Often, my Felixity would wake me, at the hour when a Musulman could distinguish his black fur from his white, with his sweet, relentless song. I would rise in search of some warm milk to settle his stomach, and when I returned, he would be curled up in the warm spot I had left, feigning innocent sleep.
How I miss being outfelined! May Mr. P live happily 4-ever.