A betrayal has occurred. The Male Hooman has made a decision. A poor one. A deeply misguided one. He has decided that I should accompany him on excursions in The Moving Box.
At first, I assumed this was a mistake. Perhaps I had been placed inside by accident. Perhaps we would go no farther than the end of the driveway, where reason would prevail.
This was incorrect.
We traveled to a place of tall buildings and relentless noise. The air itself hums there. It presses in. It does not respect personal space. The Moving Box roared. The ground did not behave properly. Nothing was still.
I voiced my concerns. Loudly, continuously, and with feeling.
The Tall Hooman referred to this as “a test run.” I will clarify. I am not a test subject; I am not running, I am enduring. There is, however, one development of note.
The Box which my hooman calls a carrier.
Once, it was a vessel of doom. A harbinger of The Place of Pokes and lots of other cats and those pesky dogs. The Betrayal Box that delivered me into the hands of those who prod and weigh and speak in false soothing tones while sticking me with devices.
Now. It’s a sanctuary. Within its walls, I am contained. Protected. Slightly less offended by existence. I retreat inside and sing the songs of my people.
The Tall Hooman calls this “caterwauling.” This is incorrect. I am serenading them with my displeasure. They should be grateful for the clarity.
My hooman tells him, “He’ll get used to it.” I will not. I will remember this and continue my song. And I will shed on everything he loves.
With enduring outrage,
Mr. Biggles
