I am the king, the king of the house, the king of the family, the king of the quarter, the everyday king, the king. I’m the boss, my name is Polochon, not very glorious, I’m afraid, but it’s their fantasy. Mouse gray, if you like, a chartreux dress nuanced with a few darker stripes in midsummer, to show that the tiger is incidentally an alley cat. My eyes are green with some golden spots that stand out in the dark. Slender, a small aristocratic head, I am the King of the Night, I roam houses, attics and cellars, gardens, meadows and woods in search of prey. A rustling of leaves, a crunch of branches, an appetizing scent, I keep watch tirelessly, motionless and proud, ready to pounce, concentrated in my request. I spot the tracks, the hunting times, the almost inaudible sounds but that say a lot.
Gray mouse, field mice, distracted bird, shrew pointing its nose, orvet sliding in the grass, lizard snooping under the stones, all is good to me. I am the king of hunters and the Tartarin of low walls.
In the morning, on the doormat, I resolutely place my trophies, aligned, inert. I bite into a piece of my prey, just to taste the various flavors, but I leave a wing tip, a few feathers, a head, a stomach, a tail so that I can count my victories of the night. Every now and then she congratulates me, and then stupidly, sometimes I feel regret in her voice, maybe I shouldn’t have, for that little great tit, so stealthy, so naughty. I couldn’t resist my consuming instinct. Not so easy with the birds flying off your nose at the last moment. It takes hours of watch, frozen under the fig leaves which sting a little. But by day, chattemite, languid in the boss’s chair who has become mine, papattes in circles, eyes closed, I recover from my nocturnal rounds, nose in tail, warm, here I am, the king.
Sometimes I open an eye, casually watching the comings and goings of the house. Here, she is sad, and I invite myself on her knees, she caresses me and I pass my sweetness, my warmth, my comfort to her.
She opens the bag of croquettes, maybe I would deign to taste some of them with the tip of my lips. When I see the neighbor’s dog, a horrible pug rush on his bowl and swallow everything in three minutes, no. Worthy, I am, delicately she hands me a piece of chicken, a crumb of salmon, I don’t mind, I savor.
Arrived very small in a big house and its garden, I like the space, its dangers and its flavor, I colonize my territory by making peace with the black cat of the neighbor, the basset on the other side of the street . They know the respect me, they owe me.
I grew up in this house full of children who heckled, pampered, pampered me, each in turn. I loved the smell and the touch of their clumsy hands, their sometimes a little brusque softness. I forgive them for grabbing me anyhow, back and forth, and when their games tire me, with a pirouette, I slip away with dignity. She’ll say, “Stop bothering that poor cat. “
And then she changed her life, moving to an apartment in the middle of Paris. Apartment! Paris! You realize ? From a large garden, we find ourselves in 80 square meters, on one level, without nooks and crannies, without mice, without anything to eat. Just a mini balcony overlooking a busy street, and the smells! You can smell them, gasoline, fuel oil, from the local pizza place, suffocating. How awful !
Stoic, I held out for a while, she was there, morning and night, but the kids got away. Just a pigeon, sometimes, was hanging onto the railing. Scare him, that was all I could do. So, I got depressed, the kibbles didn’t taste the same anymore, neither did the hugs. Every now and then I had my crazy quarter hour, rushing through the apartment, from the bedroom to the living room, back and forth at an epileptic pace. The vet said that I was lacking air, that I was having a real depression.
So she took me to her parents who had a large garden in the north. Of course, she was not there, but I had my freedom, I still managed to kill the only mouse in the area, a field mouse from time to time and, in season, a tiny rabbit, a bird , a tit again, not suspicious, and a troglodyte with its tail in the air. Okay, there was some distraction. I grew old slowly without realizing it, my record of victories was dwindling but I was well fed, well caressed, well-loved.
Recently, I feel a heaviness in my stomach, I become less agile, I eat less. The vet said I had cancer and there was nothing we could do. I’m 17, not bad for a cat, he said. But, hey, I didn’t think that was the end of my life.
She came to say goodbye. Moved, she was. A long life together matters. The tumor has grown again, it makes it difficult for me to drink, to enjoy my croquettes.
I wobble on my feet, to fetch the rainwater from the neighbor’s bucket. I have no taste for anything, even the chirping of the garden robin leaves me indifferent. I am a very small king… I am…
