The Torment of Taiga 2*

In the style of Henri Deux.

Life is futile. I have always suspected this. Now I have proof. I am here, in the Director's Chair where I belong, giving directions to my slave, as is my role in life, and I may as well be directing the clouds. She has gone mad. I tell her, "Stroke my forehead," and she continues her absurd project of vacuuming the floor and washing down the baseboards in preparation for someone she claims is her daughter.

I say, "Prepare my tuna soup," and she rushes out the door with a load of bedding to wash, leaving me with dry kibble. Who is this mythical daughter? I have never seen her. I think it must be another cat, down the hall near the laundry room, to whom she is giving her attentions. Merde. Humans cannot be trusted. She claims this putative daughter has multiple sensitivities and must sleep in a room with no dust, no cat-hair, no chemical cleaners. I am offended. My hair is a blessing. Every clump and strand is worth its weight in gold. I am a Siberian! I am the father and grandfather of all the Siberian cats in the northwestern USA. We are famous for our hypoallergenic qualities, and I am the most famous sire of all. My Fel d 1 level is 0.3. The average cat is 3000-5000. Put that in your air filter and smoke it. This supposed daughter should be so lucky as to experience my dander.

But I am banished from the bedroom. My slave has moved her reclining chair into the living room and plans for us to sleep there for the next five days. But I will not be banished. I will find a way. I will show them. I will vomit on that clean bed the first chance I get. Or worse.

I leave little gray grains of litter wherever I go. This is my way. It is how I mark my ownership. But this madwoman who has up till now been a fairly satisfactory companion, is annoying me with vacuuming, picking up tiny gray grains between her fingers, sweeping them up, digging them out of the sofa, scouring them off the kitchen floor. Madness. Obsession. I am surrounded by idiocy.

Enfin, I am forced to close my eyes to the entire business and seek solace behind this so-called director's chair arm. Oh, the irony of it all. Director's chair indeed.

My slave claims she has not seen this daughter for two and a half years. She claims that her son (the one with the little girl who calls me 'Bow-Wow') has not seen his sister since 2003. They say this visit is a big deal. I say hairballs.

*Episode 1, as if anyone gave a damn, is here.

P.S. She has arrived. First shot of the two of them at the airport here. What I would say if it were me: "Get that stupid camera out of my face."