The call to The Palace has come ...

The envelope arrived with a ‘thud’ onto the mat. Maid was at the place called work, so it lay there for a couple of hours waiting for her to get back to Tom Cat Towers to start her proper employment, taking care of me. When Maid finally came home and opened it she was rather shocked. So shocked she had to sit down and have some human catnip; champagne!!.

I wasn’t at all shocked. I had been expecting this particular piece of Royal Mail for a while.

The postmark on the envelope stated rather grandly ‘Buckingham Palace’.

I knew exactly what that envelope contained….

It contained an invitation, or more precisely - a Royal Command from The Lord Chamberlain.

At last, the much anticipated call had come, and not before time! My excellent pedigree, my regalness, my status as a Royal Himalayan Lynx had finally been recognised. For almost nine years I have lived, nay tolerated, exceedingly low standards from my current Maid (low standards which she has consistently failed to achieve). A maid who indulges in human catnip; red wine and champers which ensures levels of service fall even lower as she then snoozles the night away snoring loudly, instead of dancing attendance on me.

Then there are my housemates. Gabion Tzchugge, a snow-pawed Birchilla. A mere whippersnapper at one-year-old who thinks it is more than acceptable to gallop up to me and take a good sniff. He doesn’t care which end he thrusts his wet nose, which I find rather in inappropriate and rather undignified.

Chav Cat. She arrived last year having been rehomed after her owner had died. She is a rather porky slob of a street cat, alley cat and all round floozie who suffers from two-rats disease. She never stops chuntering, spitting, hissing or snarling. She thinks it fit to consume wildlife plucked from the garden to enlarge her ever-expanding flabby girth. She sashays outside, flaunting herself at boy cats who visit the garden. Then she turns on them and gives then a good thumping. Not a ladylike bone in her body.

The envelope contained an invite for Maid to go down to Buckingham Palace to a garden party with The Queen. Clearly a pretence. The real reason was quite obviously to recce the place for my imminent move to more salubrious surrounding which befits my ultimate breeding. Where footmen are on constant call 24/7 to attend to my every needs. Where the finest gourmet cuisine is served on solid gold plates, and my grooming sessions are pencilled into my social diary for caring uniformed staff to carry out at my leisure.

My excitement was uncontained. At last I was on my way to where I deserved to be.

Clearly I shall miss my current maid when she has been dismissed, if only for the past eight years of slovenly service, poor feeding (i.e. not on demand at 3am when I get the moggy munchies) and grooming which is a quick brush through my regal, exquisite fur with an old brush when she gets a mo!

I have always known that when I came to Tom Cat Towers, it was only a temporary arrangement as clearly I expect, demand the very best in life. I just cannot understand why it has taken so long for the invitation to come. Clearly staff at Buck House are ensuring that everything is perfect for my arrival. My new designer duvet on an antique four poster bed is plumped up. I’m expecting the catering to be much more epicurean than just slopped out on a plate as I currently endure. My cat soup will be served at the correct temperature, my cat cakes placed on my porcelain plate then forked over lightly so they are the perfect consistency for my delicate palate and my catnip mice will be arranged just so!

I am rather excited too about the range of bejewelled collars and designer accessories which will be laid out for my perusal.

I have just one act of kindness to perform. Maid is now extremely old and it is unfair to pass her on to another feline, no matter how desperate it may be for a human to serve it, as she has constantly been untrainable. Therefore, I think that the best thing now that I have been called to my right place of residence, is to have her put down. I shall, as an act of charity, be booking her in with my personal surgeon, Saint Ben of Park Street Surgery. Of course I cannot be with her at the end as I shall be ensconced on a damask silk cushion, whilst being hand-fed gourmet titbits, in a Bentley being chauffeur driven to my new, rightful abode.

I am on my now rather old and shabby designer duvet here at Tom Cat Towers awaiting Maid’s return from the garden party, and then we will start packing, not that there’s anything of value here at Tom Cat Towers I wish to take to with me. I shall be replacing my everyday tat with the most luxurious bling a posh-pawed cat can demand. In fact, I do hope that one of my new staff is a personal shopper. Such fun!!

I’ll let you know all about my new home, after the extravagant Gourmet Feast house-warming ... sorry palace-warming party I am already planning to throw at my new abode (invitation only).
 

• < Prev
• Next >