Today, I will see how slowly I can blink. 

The Idiots have left; the house is mine. I will go to my current favourite spot, on top of the big padded chair, and I will watch to see if Tiddles appears outside the window. I hate Tiddles. She hates me. That is the way it should be. If she appears when the Idiots are out I will ignore her, with lofty detachment. When the Idiots are here I make my trademark low growl-howl and they rush out to chase her away. I like to watch as she runs away, over the wall, into the hard outside where the dogs are, and the fast smelly things.

The cushion on the big padded chair is wide, and soft. I can stretch along it, or, as I’ve chosen today, pose three: paws tucked under body, head up, eyes slit-like, tail curled along my body. It’s my third favourite, after stretched in front of warm flame box and curled under the soft large cover in the Idiots’ sleeping place. Now I will ponder.

I ponder: the Idiots. The lumbering, noisy creatures that I graciously allow to share my home. I like Good Idiot; he feeds me when I ask, strokes my fur, presents me with a comfortable perch to sit on and be stroked. He is easy to train.

I don’t think Bad Idiot is capable of being trained. She doesn’t appear to understand my mews, she either pretends not to hear or mutters something that sounds unkind. She doesn’t see me when she walks, so that sometimes I have to scuttle out of her way. I don’t like to scuttle. It’s undignified. She never strokes me. I don’t scratch her though. I think that she would scratch me back. We maintain an uneasy truce.

Overall, a satisfactory state of affairs. But I think that’s enough pondering for now. Time for a sleep. In the silence, the stillness, my eyes close slowly.

I sit on my throne. In front of me crouches Tiddles, cowed, head low to the ground, ears flat against her head, a low growl deep in her throat. She is mine. By flicks of my taiI I tell my men: take her away, deal with her. They escort her to the wall, and presently I hear the sounds of battle. I am pleased. A number of plump grey mice are carried in by my favourite courtiers. They lay them down in front of me, in the appointed manner. I am pleased, and the end of my tail curls upwards. They preen and clean themselves. They are content. I am a good ruler, strong and decisive but benevolent. Many cats pay me homage.

The place where I live is all mine. There are no idiots. Fleetingly, I wonder where they have gone, but my attention is taken by someone I don’t recognise. A newcomer. She is bold, and inspects my mice. Then she takes one in her mouth, the plumpest. With the mouse dangling she raises her head and looks right at me. I am challenged! My courtiers are watching, waiting for me to act. I hiss. I arch my back, tail fully fluffed. With a yowl I spring, strike with an open paw. The strike is good and she backs away. I press my attack, raise up on hind legs for a two-paw strike. One paw catches an ear. I smell blood. The intruder drops the mouse, hisses, and backs away, then turns and flees. I follow her, tail high and wide. I see her leap the wall, past the bloody body of Tiddles. My domain is secure. I return, and pick up one of the mice.

My head is under attack. Is the newcomer back? Oh, it’s just Good Idiot. I stretch, and descend from my perch. I am refreshed. And hungry. I weave around Good Idiot’s legs. ‘You hungry? Want some food? Come on then,’ he says. They don’t know that I understand everything they say. He puts fresh food in my bowl. It’s not my favourite, so I leave most of it, pad away to sit in the hall.

I need to pee, perhaps more. I sit by the door, and Good Idiot rushes to open it for me. Tiddles is not there, so I proceed to my favourite spot. Afterwards, I kick over a little earth. Why do I do that? I will need to ponder. I sit at the opening to Inside. It is not cold, and not raining. I don’t like to be cold, and I hate to be wet. I feel like being active. I will climb my tree. A crouch, a rush and I am in the branches, holding on with my claws. A little light scratching, and I climb again, survey my domain. I am higher than the Idiots’ heads. I suddenly feel unsafe, and run down the trunk to the ground.

The thought of my soft perch on the top of the big padded chair floats, unbidden, into my mind. I go to the door, look through the glass, to Inside. Good Idiot opens the door. I make my way to my perch. I am content.