My name is Jura. I am a short-haired domestic cat. Black, white and brown tortoiseshell, I like to call myself. I share my home with three other creatures. I will describe them in descending order.
Woman. I like Woman. She understands that she is here for me and has accepted her position with good-natured grace. Although, sometimes even I think she needs to curb the doting urges. Example: “Look! Jura’s sleeping with her paw over her eyes!” (That’s so you can’t see them rolling.)
I must show her occasional adoration because, if it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be here. You see, Man is not a “cat person.” In his defense, he doesn’t consider himself a “dog person” either. He’s just not very moved by four-legged creatures. (Unless they’re large and running around a track. But I won’t go there. Now.) Man and I have similar opinions of each other. Neither thinks the other is necessary. Woman is useful for warmth, she does feed me and makes a suitable chair, but Man mostly ignores me. Once he actually sat on me.
And then there’s the gray one: a drooling ninny who squeaks in her sleep. I call her the Idiot. She happens to be my half sister. (Although we shared a womb, I’d wager a kilo of catnip that our fathers had no more in common than Garfield does to a Snow Leopard.)
On to my present straits. I knew something was amiss yesterday when Woman picked me up and stepped on the weighing device. “Seventeen and a half!” she cried and then let loose with that potty mouth of hers.
Well, of course I’ve gained weight. Ever since I was last forced to endure the vet, and I heard them talking about my need to lose weight, I’ve been grasping every calorie I can. Preparing for the famine. I remember that day as though it were yesterday. Waiting in that cold room that smells like alcohol and nervous cat pee. They weighed me and then moved on to the Idiot. I crawled behind the computer. It’s not a spacious area, but I can get enough of myself back there so I’m invisible to the human eye. The Idiot tries to blend in with the weighing device. Moron. (Forgive my redundancy.)
I don’t know why I must lose weight. Just because Woman has belonged to Weight Watchers for the past decade doesn’t mean I have body image issues. Admittedly, the cat hole leading to the basement has become snug. And parts of my body just aren’t worth the trouble to clean anymore. But this is Woman’s latest diversion and so I must endure until she moves on to the next. And she will. I only hope I can survive until she takes up soap carving.