In memory of Edgar Allan Poe and Vincent Price.
No! And twice No! I am not a mad cat. An angry cat, yes, undoubtedly so, but not a mad one. My ears twitch no more than my whiskers. I purr when necessary.
Even after its gone, I still feel anger toward that stupid yellow bird. It sang its little heart out most of the day. The entire household loved its songs with only one exception. I hated the song, I hated the yellow bird, but damn it, that does not make me mad.
I did not decide to act until I saw the mistress of the house give her mate money to buy the best seed for the bird so it would sing more and better. Pity me if you must. Some people love opera; others hate it. If I were human, I would be part of the latter. I swear to you that damned bird sang Mozart’s Figaro to frustrate me. If I had not acted when and how I did, I probably would be a mad cat.
I started that very night. Every evening, the mistress would put a towel over the cage. Every night, after the humans were sleeping, I would jump on top of the cage and raise the cloth with my teeth and glare at that horrid little bird. It would hold tightly to its perch and shiver with fear. I loved how that felt.
The second night, when it shivered, I spit at it, and the cursed yellow devil squeaked like a mouse and died of fright. Be gone you yellow bastard. I used teeth and claw to lower the towel.
Everyone in the house was upset. You would think that was the end of it. But no, I cannot howl, I cannot spit. I trill Mozart beautifully.
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