Resignation

I'm never getting out of here. I'm going to spend the rest of my miserable little life trapped in this 2400 square foot, carpeted, three-level, fully-heated-and-cooled nightmare. My days will be filled with kitty kibble, naps in squares of sunshine on the floor, and fluffy toys. My nights will be spent snuggling contented humans in their warm, soft beds. What I ever did to deserve such torture, I will never know.

Cats like me crave freedom. We need fresh air, fresh adventure, and fresh meat. The call of the open field or forest will always tug at my heart. No matter how pampered and posh they try to make me, I will always be wild inside.

I'm not sure how to move forward. For one thing, I'll have to get rid of my spy kits and collection of antique weapons. That's ok, though. They were hard to dust. The biggest challenge will be how to fill the hours that I once used creating elaborate plots and schemes. Oh, how I will miss the schemes.

I suppose there is nothing left to do but sink into complacent, contented obesity, allowing myself to be petted, played with, and indulged. It is a bitter fate, but I have resigned myself to it.

If you'll excuse me, I have blueprints to burn and a guillotine to disassemble.