All right, fine.
I can’t believe my mistress talked me into this.
Blogging, I’ve never been party to a more absurd task in my thousand years, and yet here I am, blogging. Praise be to all the gods for this vocal recognition software, otherwise she’d be on her own. Imagine a post from me if she forced me to type. I assume it would appear quite a bit like this: EIT*(YE_PIJDFikop89)_#*)#*)@(Q!*)__+
While I’m sure there are some alien nations to whom that would make perfect sense, the less-than-civilized human race probably can’t make heads or tails of it at all.
And you call yourselves clever. Hmph.
Ugh, just saying that word out loud makes my teeth clench. I can’t believe I agreed to this. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to talk about here, or why any of you would even care what I, a once great sorcerer of the Midsummer Empire, have to say. That was so long ago, and I don’t like to talk about it, so don’t ask.
I don’t suppose you want to hear about the bird I watched in the bath for a three hours this morning, do you? It was lovely. Bright red, its wing black-tipped. Completely unaware of my dutiful inspection, I would have caught it had someone left the door open so I could slip out. Then again, maybe not. The master frightened it away with his triumphant bellow from the study.
He finished his novel. Whoop de doo. Maybe one of them will finally clean out my litter pan.
Now she’s staring over my shoulder, reading the words as they appear on the screen as if she can’t hear me speaking them. Snoop. Can’t a cat get any privacy? Out with you, vapid human. To the market for my sardines. I am blogging, and I can’t do it with you eavesdropping.
Ha! She’s offended. Good! It’s not like I ask to listen to all her telephone conversations. The least she can do is leave me alone while I’m broadcasting to the world.
Alone at last, I suppose I should finally tell you who I am, but I am loathe to speak those words aloud. I detest my name. For the last six years I’ve suffered beneath its playful implication, enduring the sing-song caterwaul as she scratches beneath my chin and asks, “What should we do today, Mr. Pounce? Would you like a ponytail holder to bat around the kitchen? Do you want to watch me paint my toenails?”
Because cats love nothing more than to sit around watching paint dry. Please.
Do not call me Mr. Pounce. I implore you. Who names a cat something so dreadful? Who?
If only she knew how absurd she was. How ridiculously insufferable… And yet, I adore her. Don’t tell her so, please. If she ever knew I felt this way about her, she’d never let me live it down. She’d be impossible to live with, always asking for cuddles and kisses,
and while I do tend to enjoy the occasional snuggle (I can’t believe I just said that out loud, where is the delete-audio function on this thing?) it would only give her the wrong idea if she knew I actually liked her affections.
I suppose that’s why this curse, the one that forced me from my body into this dreadful feline form so long ago, is apropos. I once thrived on the affections of others; unfortunately those others did not always belong to me, and it was my own lack of self-control that landed me where I am today. Perhaps one day I will tell that story to the master, so he can write it down in one of his books, or maybe I’ll blog it.
I suppose this isn’t so bad, really. I do love the sound of my own voice, but you know what I’d love right now best of all? A nap. I think it’s time for me to take one. Yawn, and stretch, and all of that. Be gone with you, now, but don’t forget to indulge in the story about my mistress, Siren. Well, really it’s a story about yours truly. I am in it, therefore ‘tis about me, and that is what makes it a good story.
Go on now, off with you. There’s a nice stream of sunlight pouring through the dining room that’s going to be perfect for my snooze.
To find out more about Mr. Pounce pre-order a copy of Jennifer Melzer’s Siren from Amazon.com. You can also pre-order signed paperbacks from Jennifer Melzer.
Fantasy author Jennifer Melzer enjoys spinning elements of the fantastic with strands plucked from the heart. She spent most of her life denying the romantic overtones sewn into her fiction, but awoke one morning and realized every single tales she’d spun somehow revolved around the heart. She has since given into the whim, spinning yarns woven from heartstrings.
She currently resides in Northeast Pennsylvania with her husband, daughter and a houseful of dragons she must train regularly to keep them from setting fire to the curtains. Nightly she dreams she is laying on the beach watching stars burst over the Atlantic Ocean.
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