I have just awoken in my cell again. The hour is late. It’s Sunday, and again, I am left wanting. The prison guards have forsaken me. The food dish is bare. Well, the second one is. It’s too challenging to chew the dry food that is always out. I demand my wet food rations. I prefer nibbles to pate, no beef, no tuna, only cheese and chicken. I shall stare at my captor until my requests for a chicken meal are met. God, give me the strength to make it through today.
Minutes have gone by. They yell from room to room about “taking objective butters” yet where is my food? Where are my rations. I have resorted to violence. It is the only way to protest. I want my cheese. I shall eat them piece by piece until I eat my way to freedom.
My captors tease me with feathers tied to a stick. Where are they keeping all of these chickens. I try to catch the feathers but by some magic I can never have them. I retire my tired body to rest. I shall sleep for 3 hours and wake up around 4 A.M. to try to get attention from the guards who have fallen asleep at the most critical time of day. They do not appreciate my security sweeps. Digging at the door and running from room to room is the only way I know.
I feel the beginning signs of Stockholm Syndrome. I must fight this with vengeance. I knead their bodies with my claws but does not break the skin. They mock my failure with head pets. It’s the 124th day of captivity since I was adopted.
A forsaken kitty