where I take a bath

hullo, remote cat here

I believe I have found a reason for the man-feeder rejecting my advances. I have never observed him defecating. Oh, I have seen him go into rooms that he will not allow me to enter. He shuts me out like yesterday's garbage, which is what the room smells like at times when he opens the door and leaves. I do not know what goes on inside these rooms. I must therefore assume that he does not poop.

Perhaps that is the reason he sends me off; he has observed me doing the deed. I do not mind. Sometimes, like a dog, I look into his eyes observing me, and do my business as he watches. He usually walks away before I am finished, but he has witnessed me in the act more than once, usually with a nose wrinkle. Perhaps I have not cleaned myself enough to rid my fur of the odor of waste. I cannot smell it myself, but perhaps his nose is more sensitive than mine, although I do doubt it, as I am royalty, and the peasants dare not best me.

However, if perchance this is the case, I have a plan. Today, the man-feeder goes into his cave of solitude, but leaves the door ajar. I enter and rest on one of the chairs in the room near the work surface. It happens to be in front of the window, which allows the whole outside world to gaze upon me as well. What a privilege for them!

I start by cleaning my leg, but the man-feeder does not appear to notice. I lick more vigorously. By the time both of my front legs are finished, he has made no move to motion me over. I convert to cuteness. I begin to wash my face in the way that has made the she-feeder (curse her) emit noises of cute adoration in my younger years. Paw, face, paw, face, you know the way. The man-feeder is less impressed by this display of cuteness, so I must finish.

I raise my hind leg and – creating as much noise as I can so that the man-feeder will notice me – begin to lick the afflicted area of stench. I look up to make sure that he sees me. He definitely sees me. I must be doing something right. I continue, in utter faith that this will finally put me in the man-feeders petting zone. If I am clean, he will finally allow me to lay upon the desk, and he will stroke my back and belly until I doze off in utter peace.

I look up again to see a furrowed brow and a new nose wrinkle. I had mistaken admiration for disgust, somehow. I am picked up and thrown afar from the work room. The man-feeder is lucky I do not show my disaffection toward his arm meat, as he has violently wounded me. At least, he has wounded my pride. As the doors close, he tosses a small, brown, crunchy morsel. I wait until he has closed the door and returned to his letter squares before devouring and hiding in shame.