Cat Life

I was going through my old box of writing from years back, mostly around 1998 until about 2002. Lots of rubbish in there, tossed a pile of it, but interesting to read over, some a bit cringey, but some really funny and was surprised how much I liked it. It’s like reading someone else’s writing, I was a completely different person back then, but was amazing how relatable bits of it were.

This was an odd short bit written from the perspective of a cat 🙂

I hate the way he looks at me, when he gets in from a hard days work, like, ‘lazy piece of shit.’ Fuck you and your job, I think. He takes his dirty big boots off and puts the TV on. Who doesn’t. ‘What’s for tea?’ Same stuff, new day. She is what he wants, and has given up herself and her soul, and tells him what he wants to hear, not that it makes him happy. The phone rings, ‘Hello? No, no I don’t,’ And hangs up. What an odd life.

He looks at me again as the TV fails to hold his gaze, and shakes his head. He smells of beer and coal and I try not to laugh at his black face with white eyes and teeth. I half expect him to burst out Al Jolson style Maameee or some shit. Go and have a bath ya cunt. I narrow my eyes and look at him.

I got to the kitchen and have a look, and she smiles like ‘fucking cooking eh, what can you do,’ and I smile back and rub up against her leg. I go to my dish, but my water has crumbs in it and the meat is old and stinks. I look up but she’s humming a tune and doesn’t notice, doesn’t want to, keeps humming and cooking.


Back into the living room. He looks sad, or no, not sad, but angry and bitter with twisted head and no head held high. He eats as if he hates her and the food, but he can’t even taste it. It’s himself he hates. He was dead already but he doesn’t know it until his heart stops and he gets one last look at the world. ‘Die you fuckwit,’ I think, and lick my paw.

There’s panic but I know she’s glad and he looks her in the eyes like sorry but you know, not really that sorry. He grabs for her and his meat and peas go all over the floor. I roll one with my paw but it has gravy on it and sticks. Lick, lick. I yawn as she grabs him under the arms and cries, but not loud, from inside. I yawn and go to the boy’s room. Here I can sleep.


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