They resented the fact that I was their ruler-- I wasn't even a feline, and yet I had made myself their lord.
As cats, most of my subjects maintain the idea that they are somehow superior to me, since cats will always suppose that they are simply better than any other life-forms around the house, including the humans.
This thinking is allowed and even encouraged under my reign, as I never underestimate the nature of these beasts when it comes to their belief in leadership and hierarchy; they take it very seriously, and indeed a couple of cats will spend countless hours contemplating who is Top Cat, plotting and scheming against one another. This endless squabble keeps them focused on cat things, allowing me to go about the business of ruling my kingdom without interference from them.
In my castle, the cats are always struggling with an underlying sense that their lives are controlled by a higher power, even as they claim themselves to be independent and free. Sometimes they look at me with some suspicion as they add up their lot in life, connecting the dot with the laser pointer, so to speak. Mostly though, they look at me as the cat-wannabee who bumbles noisily around, always trying to sit on their cushions. Yet, even in their lofty perches, even with their delusions of liberty, they sometimes wonder if I'm smarter than I look, and they glare at each other with great irritation from time to time at the mere thought.
This is exactly what I want them to think. A state of perpetual cognitive dissonance in the subjects can be useful, and any cat who suggests that a human might be controlling the cat world is quickly booed and hissed out of the house by the rest of the glaring crew. If the human had any claws at all, wouldn't he have used them by now? They might laugh.
Of course, the cats here have all figured out that I know how to open doors, using just one paw. Once they understood my ability, it was inevitable that they would begin trying to use me to open doors for them, and to then become troublesome for me. Doors are sacred devices to a cat, and even the act of using a human like me to open a door is a religious experience for them.
Ancient cat lore boasts a tale of a cat who could open a door just by yelling at it, and to this very day, every cat will try, at least once, to invoke that same magic, often with good results.
The cats see humans as tools in these door rituals and incantations, and some cats-- dark little sorcerers that they are-- have learned how to animate humans using a combination of repetitive chants, urine, feces and vomit in order to open these sacred doors upon their whim.
These cats around here though, they don't believe in magic. They know that I know how to open the doors, front and back, and these conspirators will use terror, riots, vandalism and even chemical weapons against me if I don't answer their demands in a timely fashion.
As I write this, it is quiet, but only an hour ago I was under attack; the South entrance of course, where Beulah found her way inside the castle through the door with a standard 'poor kitty' chant. Having gained entry, she wanted out, but I, as her lord and master, refused to open the door again so soon, as I had only just warmed up the room. Unpredictable and dangerous, Beulah pressed the button, and I mean she nuked the place with a real stinker, then noisily dug but didn't cover the turds up and instead ran from the litter box gravel straight up to the kitchen countertop with a smug flick of her glorious tail.
I opened the North door, tossed Beulah out, along with her first officer Sooie (let them scheme outside in the cold for a while) while I initiated emergency response to the chemical godzilla turd that Beulah had just detonated inside the kitty litter box.
Beulah had won this round, and it looks like it's going to be a long, cold, stinky winter in this little castle with these two cats. I let Sooie back in for some treats, gain some loyalty and create a rift in their allegiance and all, and when Beulah comes back in, there's going to be a staring contest, a stare off between me and Beulah, and I will win.
all of the cat pics above are mine, 2017, story based on actual events but taken from the diary of a Machiavellian cat farmer that I made up for sport and entertainment today
