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From the Cat's Point of View



I wrote this story a long time ago. I couldn't find a copy on my computer, so I don't know when it was written.

But I found it in a file folder and I thought you might enjoy it.

(It was written for a word challenge. The words I had to use are in italics).


And I'm sharing the first two paragraphs of my 5th book in the Meg Sheppard Mystery Series. Bear in mind they're taken from the first, rough draft - and are subject to change!!


Here goes with the story:


The Cat and the Chair


"You've left hair all over this chair again," Mildred says.

Well, of course I've left cat hair all over the chair again. I'm a cat, and it's my favourite chair, so I curl up on it. It's critical that I have somewhere soft and safe where I can lick my coat with my raspy tongue, and scratch out loose hairs with my sharp claws. Furthermore, various unwelcome bits and pieces bury themselves in my long, dense, fluffy fur, and these need special attention, requiring an attack with my pointed teeth and then a special spit to get rid of them.

I wish Mildred recognized and appreciated how hard I work to keep myself looking beautiful.

It's like deja vu as Mildred rubs the cushion again with a piece of sticky tape which is fast becoming fuzzy. Mildred's brain is fuzzy. Perhaps it's because her head is conic and where her brain should have developed, there's just space.

Her lack of brain power is most evident in her incapacity to comprehend. I try to make things as simple as possible for her. I have a loud voice and I'm not afraid to use it. I'm confident I communicate with clarity and expression. And my body language is as blatant as I can make it, without wearing myself into a frazzle. I reinforce my message with a rub against her legs, or a look outside, or I paw open the cupboard door. What more can I possibly do? Oh, yes, and I even use my face to underscore what I'm saying. I'm proud of my smile. I can grin, making my eyes lift up at the corners and brighten. I defy anyone not to notice. But Mildred, sadly, much as I love her, is, nine times out of ten, oblivious. On the rare occasions when she appears to be paying attention, she usually miscomprehends my careful deliberations. She opens the backdoor when I've asked for a treat. She offers me water when I've pleaded for a rub behind my ears. She puts me on the floor when I've told her how happy I am asleep on the chair.

I get tipped off the chair on purpose when we have visitors. If they're people we don't know, she tells them she's an academic, a professor of geology, I think it is. I don't know what that means, but I know she's studying chalk deposits somewhere in England. But she's not seen them herself, although there seem to be plans in the works. I'd like to go with her, as long as I can take my favourite chair.


First two paragraphs of the rough draft of Book 5 of the Meg Sheppard Mystery Series:


At least I just have carry-on bags and don't have to stand beside the baggage carousel and battle to retrieve my luggage. It's past my bedtime and the seven-hour flight has made my feet swell, my head ache, and my stomach grumble. It's as if I've woken up from a bad dream, but I haven't had any sleep.

My mobile tells me there's a message. I hope it's William and he's here to meet me. It's hard to read as I walk- made more difficult because my eyes are scratchy and don't want to focus. It's not him. It's someone I don't know. Another text pops up. This time it's Melissa. She's here to drive me home.


(Why isn''t William there? You'll have to read the book!!!!!)

(PS I'm editing!)


Copyright Vicky Earle 2022

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