The only other living, breathing being that could initially see me came into the good-mother’s modest abode some three days after Lady Delilah’s first glimpse of me. “She”—for it was definitely female—evidently had been rescued from the inadequate charge of Delilah’s school/hovel-mate (called a roomie?) named Judith or Judi, another absurd derivative of an honorable namesake. It seemed the care of a mere cat was too much trouble for Judi.
A cat? Just let it out? Are there no mice or rodents left in Boston in this day and age?
Regardless, t’is naught my duty to judge this black-and-white ball of fluff with long silky hair that most definitely can see, hear, and resent me!
Hissing, spitting, and thrashing her thick wooly tail—mayhaps, I had inadvertently stepped upon said dark bushy appendage when first she bounced out of a small crate of unusually lightweight skyblue-colored material—most assuredly something other than wood.
I thought she was a very small raccoon, but the colors were more reminiscent of a skunk, the pattern resembling a gentleman’s evening white tails.
She had a coal black mask around exotic emerald-gold eyes above a snow-white furry face with incredibly long white whiskers and elaborate eye lashes, a pink button nose, and high pointed ears, exactly half-black/half-white with the inner ear canals showing pale pink delicate skin amidst long fuzzy white hairs.
Her beauty, for a beauty she was despite her loathing of me, emanated in a full luxuriant royal-white ruff that nestled her tiny face and fell in long pristine waves down her entire breast. Her small body sat squarely atop short, fuzzy white legs, a splash of glossy black spilled across her back to the tip of that recalcitrant tail. Surprisingly, the massive silky hair that flowed from her underside to the floor was pure gleaming white.
She was a playful little mite, using her front paws with nary a single claw like tiny hands, throwing small items up in the air, catching them adroitly, and using her front feet to clean and arrange her long hair. It just seemed inaccurate to refer to her shining coat as the fur of other cats as it was more like spun silk threads or even human hair. The grooming process was lengthier than a regal lady adorning herself for a ball.
Her back feet, however, incongruously large and shaped like a rabbit’s had her flouncing and bouncing up and down Delilah’s sleeping area, on the floor, across the room…until she encountered me…than she would halt in startled animosity, drawing back and rearing up on those big clawed back feet like a grizzly bear. I expected her to roar! Sometimes she did growl low in her throat as she hissed and spat at me.
What in the world was this wee beastie!?
Besides the small meshed crate, which she never stayed in, she has her own kitty chamberpot, rectangular in shape, made from the same lightweight material as the crate, but in bright dazzling pink! Some bits of fine gravel fill this chamberpot…an odd system, to be sure, but the cat seems to enjoy scratching and digging through this substance. She seems terribly affronted if you watch her. A prissy little creature! I wondered why Lady Delilah didnae’ keep her in her cage?
Pardon me; I should dignify Delilah’s cat with her given name. She is called, Mollie. Delilah loves to talk to her by name in cooing tones, but when I dare to recite that nomenclature “Mollie” just stares at me with those huge almond-shaped eyes filled with hostility, looking away in disgust as if I was boring her.
Mollie sleeps pleasantly on the bed pallet with her mistress. Delilah’s greatest joy is watching this useless beast either stalk me or play with multi-colored hairbands—another new word for me—I would have referred to them as thongs that men in the colonies use, bits of rawhide to tie back our long tresses. This is so American, rather than the stodgy, smelly wigs of the British.
There’s also something called a rubber band that Mollie chases and flits from place to place, and finally, yes, there are mice. No, not a real mouse! These are made of cloth in vivid hues, some that rattle, some with bells, some with long tails and feathers to dangle in front of Queen Mollie. I can think of her in no other context rather than the highest of feminine royalty.
The name “Mollie” is known to me as an Irish wench. Delilah tells me, however, that this wee critter (less than one-half stone in weight; according to Delilah only six pounds? I think of pounds as currency) is Turkish in heritage and an Angora, but I cannae’ accept the lady’s jest for all know that the Angora is a goat!
Thus, a long, tedious tale of my new arch-enemy. This is how Queen Mollie became a member of our astral team.
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