MOPPET

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I think I knew his mother. She looked just like him, tabby only without the white, stranger cat who walked across the SOHO complex I passed everyday. Home for Sencha, the field of an unnamed golden tom who always come running to me for food, and recently, a young calico tabby just a little younger than Julia, brought to me by the golden tom.

I called her and she turned to me, I opened a pouch of Whiskas and she followed me to a small gated alley for sewage way where I can put out a plate for her to eat. Part of her fur on her back was cut; with scissors, because it’s unnaturally straight ended.

Before I got myself a ride, I saw her pass by me again, and I called her. She looked tired. I made a cup out of a paper plate and pour her water. I asked her if she is new, but she didn’t answer. She just drink and walked away. I never seen her again since, but I think she lives near by.

But that was a few days after I picked him up, near the same gated alley, alone, confused, and scared. He was chased from one end of the corridor to the other by a toddler whose mom just watch her son tormenting a lost baby, thinking whatever happened was funny. He was too tired to keep running and just sit there, ignoring the toddler who pushed him to run again.

The kid was sort of sulk when I picked up his toy and his mother was sort of putting up a show, but if look could kill, she’d be dead when she looked straight into my eyes. It took just one second and she went away as far as she could. Smart mom.

I am such a party pooper aren’t I? Sorry not sorry.

The baby was a genius. I swear he is. He poked his head out of my tote bag along the way, riding motorbike taxi, but if my gesture changed – for example – when I talked to someone or when I enter a shop, he’d be deep inside his cradle very, very quietly. He will look up, with his round eyes, and asked me silently if it’s all over, but he soon learned that before I push my white purse back inside the tote, he’d better stay still.

On our long journey home from shopping, he slept inside, hugging my purse.

But just as soon as I put my bag down, He decided it’s time for a revenge.

He chased me everywhere. There are other kittens around but he chased me everywhere, and if he doesn’t get my attention he moped and cry and cry and cry. If the attention he got is not enough, he moped and cry and cry and cry. If I told him he should stay outside of the studio while I am inside working, he moped and cry and cry and cry. If he doesn’t like his milk, whether it’s too warm or too cold, he moped and cry and cry and cry. If I gave him Tomlyn instead of Vedco gel, he moped and cry and cry and cry. If I interrupted him because I need to change the bed sheet, he moped and cry and cry and cry.

The baby was a genius. I swear he is. He knows the perfect way to get what he wants (just because I need him to be quiet for a bit), and he walked straight into the litter box, with no one prompting, and do his business where he should since the first time, even when all of his peers need reminders from time to time.

He also knows how to eat like a gentleman. He never once dip his foot inside the plate, even when his peers still swim into theirs from time to time.

He let Queenie; a lady, drink first. He let Julia drink first. He let Daisy drink first. He let Ginger’s mama drink first because she swat him when he tried to cut her line, however.

When he saw my hand idle, he mopes and cry and cry and cry until I picked him up, and then he would nibble on my fingers, either one or all of ten, one after another. If I pulled my hand because it hurts, of course, he moped and cry and cry and cry.

When I try to sleep, even for just an hour, he will moped and cry and cry and cry. He wants to sleep on top of me. Then he wants to sleep on my arm, then he wants to play chase first with the other, then he jumps up and down the bed, then he…

Whatever, I am tired. I just turn my back and sleep. He can moped and cry and cry and cry.

He does. Every night without fail. He won’t let me close my eyes.

When it’s finally four a.m. in the morning and the first ray of the sun hit the earth, I opened my curtain, with very heavy eyes, very irritated mind, and I will mope looking at him curling up like an angel, sleeping.

I am an adult, so I can’t cry and cry and cry.

I won’t tell whether I swear though.

Did I mention he is a genius? He knows when I pulled out my camera even when he is sleeping and he won’t let me take his picture. If I try to hard, well, he moped and cry and cry and cry.

And he knows “Delete” is a dangerous button, and so is “Backspace” and “Esc” So, he press “Caps Lock” instead and locked me out various sites every now and then just because he did it so conspicuously I didn’t realize the caps’ light was on and casually typed in correct password the wrong way.

The whole weekend, by chance, I have to deal with various sides and version of Beatrix Potter. Heck, even one of the posts Christine Alice shared is about Beatrix Potter’s three kittens.

I know the kitten Ms. Potter named “Moppet” supposed to be a girl, but gifted cat or otherwise, all he does is mope and cry and cry and cry.

So why not? If by any chance the namesake or the lady who gave that name to his namesake was offended, I have a sneaky way out.

I hope he grows up soon though, it’s not quite genius to keep me (and his peers) awake all night when he can sleep twenty two hours straight afterwards and leave everyone cranky the whole day.

~ Josie

paypal.me/whiskerssyndicate


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