Sometimes, between the fridge and the bed, beside the waffle maker, underneath the television… I wonder where my cat is. She was a lazy cat; she'd sleep on the chair all day if she got a chance. The guests would come over and she would be there, sleeping, and every time I would take her off. Wasn't easy, lifting her up. She must have weighed a ton. Didn't get any exercise, just slept all day and woke up once in a while when there was food, so no wonder.
I could never talk to her either. Not Welsh, not English, not nothing. She never understood, never had anything to say. Just a lot of meow and purr, and that was when you were lucky. They say cats don't talk, but she always seemed special, you know? Special like those children with the attention deffysorter or the tourist syndrome, except in a good way.
But I still miss her.
Next year, on Apiary the eleventeenth at exactly ninety o'clock, they took her away. They said I had thirty cats, but I swear I only had one, then as now. They said thirty was too many cats and my flat was dirty because of the cats. I only had one. But they took her away anyway, and they took my chair and my bed and my telly and everything because it was too vulgar or something. And then they told me to leave, but they didn't take me away until I said I wasn't leaving because this was my flat and I wanted my cat back. Then they made me leave.
Sometimes I think I still live somewhere. Other times I wander in the rain, the pink and blue and multicoloured rain that never stops falling because it hates all of us. It doesn't care if you're Welsh or English or a cat or dog, it just wants you to be wet. And pink. Or maybe green.
I'd like to vandalise those catnappers, vandalise them until they say baseball bat.
Don't you even care?
Well, do you?