Past Imperfect

Past Imperfect – #114

Claudia was very impressed with her image in the antique mirror, as were the 13 Cuban refugees hidden under her dress and waiting for the signal that they had reached the American shore.

Cleopatra the Cat, wandering up as I type. “That’s an extremely insensitive thing to write about people seeking a better life and you need to delete it immediately.”

Me: “What’s with the cats in this house constantly interrupting my writing?”

Cleo: “That’s an outrageous lie and you know it. At least as it pertains to me. Perhaps you’re referring to that insipid brother of the mine, Scotch the Brat, who can’t go five minutes without whoring himself for attention. I, for one, keep my business to myself, as any proper lady should do.”

Me: “Fair enough. You do seem to keep your distance, all the way back to your first day in this house. You walked in the door and immediately dismissed the proffered cat bed for not having a high-enough thread count.”

Cleo: “It was an outrage! I’m not going to sleep on anything like that.”

Me: “But you were a rescue kitty. Before Other Daddy came along, you were sleeping on the mean streets of Odessa, Texas. That couldn’t have been any fun.”

Cleo: “At least then I had control of my food supply. In this low-thread dump I have to put up with your demeaning food schedule, as if I don’t know how and when to feed myself.”

Me: “But you don’t know how to control yourself. Like the vet said, left to your own devices you would be the size of a Buick. We couldn’t afford the cost of the crane it would take to move you from room to room.”

Cleo: “Do not speak of the wretched Vet Man. He violated me in unspeakable ways.”

Me, sighing: “He’s never done anything to you that he hasn’t done to your brother Scotch.”

Cleo: “I beg to differ. He took away my hoo-hoo!”

Me: “Well, he didn’t really take it away. It was more of a restructuring of the circuit board. He did the same to your brother.”

Cleo: “Stop comparing me to my insipid and clueless sibling. I have nothing in common with that little pestilence, and I have no desire to be like him, featured all the time in your little stories on your trashy vanity experiment known as Bonnywood Minor.”

Me: “Duly noted. I will not mention you again. Now run reclaim your throne in whatever country it is that you think you live in.” I turn back to my laptop.

Cleo does not turn. Or move in any way, sitting there in that clearly-annoyed feline manner where one doesn’t have a clue concerning the source of the annoyance.

Me: “Was there something else?”

Cleo: “I want to be in more of your stories.”

Me: “But you just said…”

Cleo: “Oh, don’t be so ignorant. I’m a cat. I can change my mind about anything at any minute. For at least the next thirty seconds, I’m very invested in having my life chronicled in your trashy rag of a blog.”

Me: “You’re not really selling me on the idea, what with the trashy angle.”

Cleo: “I don’t have to sell myself. I have many royal thoughts to share, and people will pay good money to hear what I have to say.”

Me: “Money? I don’t make any money on this blog.”

Cleo: “You don’t? Then why the hell do you spend so much time on it?”

Me: “Because I like the interaction and meeting other writers and-”

Cleo, paw in the air. “Just stop. I’ve already lost interest and your pathetic reality is sad in so many ways. I’ll just have to consider other revenue streams for my retirement. And now I’m off to find the least offensive cat bed out of the 46 you have shoved at me over the years. I’ll just make the best of this mess as I can. We’re done here.”

She finally turns, trots up the stairs out of the sanctum wherein I compose my madness, strolls through the adjoining den, hisses at her brother who has been surreptitiously hiding in said den until things settle down, and then she disappears down a hallway.

Scotch looks at me, shrugging his shoulders.

I shrug back, then I refocus on my laptop, opening a new document.

Claudia was very impressed with her image in the antique mirror, but not nearly as much as the cat behind her who owned 46 beds and still wanted more…

Prior Note: Previously published. Considerable changes made, as the original version only consisted of the first paragraph, one that now seems mundane and incomplete (and refugee-insensitive). Sometimes you have to double-dip with the cat references, just to make sure you mined all veins…

New Note: Slight changes made. Cleo the Cat is still appalled by the low thread-count of her low-satisfaction queendom. Scotch the Cat has since crossed the Rain Beau Bridges. And the previous sentence just walloped me, with the hint of twisted Scotch-speak that some of you long-term Bonnywood guests will recognize from the many Scotch stories of yore. Dang those fur babies. The echoes never end…


26 replies »

  1. The truly scary thing about Claudia’s dress (aside from the fact that it has its own zip code) is that it has enough waist cabbages to feed a family of Irish immigrants for a month.

    Liked by 4 people

  2. Lord Dudley was violated and altered at the shelter from which we adopted him and has not been introduced to our local Marquis de Sade as yet. I’m sure his Royal Highness will not be pleased with the assault on his personage and will let his displeasure be known with a strategically placed poo when the time comes.

    Liked by 2 people

    • Ah, the sinister evils of poo-placement retribution. When Cleopatra is dissatisfied with the freshness of her litter (which is roughly 36 seconds after we just replaced the entire contents), she will leave little packages right outside the box. They are always artfully-positioned, so she gets style points for that, but the message is clear: “Do something about this mess or the bunny gets it.”

      Liked by 1 person

  3. Claudia was actually wondering whether her cleavage would pass the censorship board that was required to ‘vet’ (sorry Ziggy, sorry Cleo) any form of art, lest it contain sexual content and/or naughty verbiage. Also free-thinking and having a sense of the absurd is (are? – Grammarly is driving me insane) not admired by those who are on the board. I feel sorry (a wee bit) for those persons, as their lives are no doubt drab and colorless and they’ve always felt misunderstood. The cleavage issue would have been a valid one.

    As to the mention of those dear wee ones that have passed over the Bridge of Many Colors, a faint mist (Scotch of course) came to my eyes. I miss mine too. Tell Cleo to count herself lucky, the Person Who Smells of Evil and Does Mean Things (aka the vet) pulled a great many of Ziggy’s teeth on this last go-round. Ziggy has only just started to trust me again, as I took him THERE and all was misery. Let Ms. Cleo know that at least they’ve left her mouth alone. Ziggy had both ignominious ‘snips’ (relieved of his berries and now his teeth). It could be worse, Cleo.

    Liked by 4 people

    • Claudia does seem to have some rather adventurous bosom buddies, so I’m sure there was some “discussion” over the matter. (And I just now realized that the “rack-presentation” aspect of her couture doesn’t seem to quite match between the “real world” and the “mirror image”. That’s odd. Hmm. Maybe I really should be wearing those reading glasses that are around here somewhere.)

      The teeth thing is something we’ve never really had to deal with concerning our fur babies. (Knock on wood. The mere fact that I just typed that out will probably jinx me.) There have been a few cleanings here and there, for tartar buildup and whatnot, but the teeth generally last until the Bridge of Many Colors…


  4. I wonder which movie is this and who is this Claudia. I googled, but can’t find anything. LOL. I’ve always wondered how heavy this kind of dress is and how much one can hide under it. For example, in Gone With The Wind, the skirt part of the dress is huge. Well, in those days, I mean the days before anorexia and cosmetic surgery and other modern myths being invented, women have to have other ways to torture themselves. Their waist has to be bound to the point of fracture. LOL. It seems to me that throughout the history men can never be attracted to healthy natural women. Women have to subject themselves to crocodile dung, foot binding, waist constricting, high heels, face painting, surgery, depilation, silence, demureness and many other strange tortures just to be appealing to men.

    Liked by 5 people

    • You’re exactly right. Women have always had to contort themselves to satisfy men. (Well, except for those few and rare societies and cultures that were matriarchal rather than patriarchal.) Meanwhile, the men just have to simply exist in order to be considered valued and worthy. If only we could break the cycle and share things equally, but that’s hard to accomplish when the power is so lop-sided…

      I don’t think this snap is from a movie. If memory serves (I have long since lost my notes on where I found the photo), this was a fashion shoot from the 1950s. Dior, perhaps? I just came up with the name Claudia as it seemed to fit her cloudy couture… 😉

      Liked by 2 people

    • Yep, those fur babies. Right now we are feeding a momma cat and her EIGHT wee ones who have taken up residence on the patio, having moved into the cleverly-disguised “kitty condos” used by previous rounds of strays. Soft-hearted, we are.

      I sent a text to Claudia, asking for the name of her pharmacist, because you never know when you might need a creative one…

      Liked by 1 person

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