A depressing reality has dawned on me. I thought I was master of my domain, but recent incursions into my land have thrown back this veil of delusion. It’s time I accept the truth: Mr. Biscuit is just a house cat.
I used to be a kitten filled with strange ideas about the world. I thought it belonged to me, that I was the best thing since sliced bread. Now, at the ripe, old age of two years and five months, I’ve come to realize that I was oh so wrong.
A kitten has moved in next door. He’s always playing outside, chasing bugs and hiding in the bushes. This frolicking also takes him onto our yard, where he walks with impunity.
Meanwhile, the grey cat that lives on a lot behind ours has grown bolder. As late as last night, he was parading through our backyard, taunting Butterscotch and I until the bearded human chased him away.
I can do nothing to stop either of them.
They prance around freely, without a care in the world, while when I am even allowed outside, I have to be on a leash. As evolved as cats are, we are still a territorial bunch, and their presence on my land, uninvited, is just a slap in the face.
It has thus become clear to me that I have no territory, that my own little space stops at the walls of this house. The world doesn’t belong to me; I only live in it. I must have truly reached adulthood, because I finally know what disillusion feels like.