In the monochrome monotony of New Pawsington, a realm where the color spectrum seemed to have given up, one rebel with whiskers defied the blandness—Captain Whiskers, the tortoiseshell maverick. She dwelled in a world painted in shades of drab, from her grey cat bed in her plush grey cat house to the grey couch surrounded by grey walls in her hooman’s living room. The cat’s entire world was wrapped in the cold embrace of greyness. Yet, Captain Whiskers was no ordinary feline; she harbored dreams beyond the safety and comfort her pathetic hooman provided. Captain Whiskers cohabitated with Sally Jenkins, a lab technician whose life was as riveting as watching paint dry, specifically, grey paint.
Sally, or Sal, as her few friends called her had a most boring life. She went to work, she came home, she watched “Love Labours Lost” on the TV, and she ordered more grey furniture from mail-order catalogs. Yes, she still used mail-order catalogs, not even graduating to the shopping networks on TV. In the small moments in between, she tried desperately to get her cat to love her, to need her. Hoping that this would erase the fact that no one loved her, no one needed her. But her cat, who would feed Captain Whiskers and give her a place to sleep and rescue her from the outside world and give her little scratches under the chin?
Captain Whiskers appreciated some of the actions of her servant, her hooman. But all too often it was like her servant, Sal, didn’t even understand the orders that were coming out of Captain Whiskers’ mouth. Captain Whiskers yearned for the great outdoors, her soul too vast for the grey prison she was confined to. But Sal did everything in her power to prevent Captain Whiskers from leaving and would even track her down and bring her back anytime she escaped. No respect for her betters!
Still, Captain Whiskers found little moments for daring escapades. Every night, after curling up with Sal to watch the British reality show “Love Labours Lost”, Sal would go to bed and Captain Whiskers would go hunting. Searching for an open window, or sometimes a loose floorboard vent or ceiling tile. She would get outside her grey domicile and venture downtown to lead her pack of gal-pals on assorted adventures. Or when feeling randy, she would make the journey to run around with Rusty Stripes. The gold colored ne’er-do-well from the southside of the tracks. She felt dangerous in the company of the bad boy cat but safe and protected at the same time. With his size and street smarts, he always knew how to get into just the right amount of trouble without serious risk.
Captain Whiskers would always make sure to be back in her grey catbed before Sal woke up the next morning. Not that she needed her hooman’s permission, she was a grown-ass cat, but it was worth the effort to avoid the trouble of the want-a-be jail warden finding her outside. Early on, Captain Whiskers would try to break free from the grey walls while Sal was up and about. As her hooman opened the door to leave for work, Captain Whiskers would bolt out the front door. But Sal always caught her in the hallway and haul her back in. She would always make sure to give her hooman a good scratch, just to keep her in line. But Captain Whiskers quickly found discretion the better part of adventure and limit her escapes to when Sal was sleeping or off at work.
Today was a day no different than any other. Sal was busy getting ready for work and Captain Whiskers yearned for an adventure, the heat of the sun called her to be outside. She searched the apartment for what would be her escape route as soon as her hooman left for the day. She checked all the windows, shut tight. She checked the vents and ceiling tiles, none of them were loose enough to guarantee an exit. Right as she was prepared to give up, Captain Whiskers spotted the gigantic bag next to the front door. Her hooman somehow carried this monstrosity around with her everyday. Assuming there’d be some opportunity to get out of the bag and run wild and free in the sun at some point, Captain Whiskers wiggled her nose into the oversized bag. Squirming her way into the depths, Captain Whiskers found a soft bedding to lay down in. “What are all these things floating around in her? Gross…it’s a bunch of half-used tissues! Why are hoomans so gross? Eww…eww…ewwwwww.”
Despite her protestations, Captain Whiskers found the pillowy surface rather comfortable and quickly fell asleep. Dreams of frolicking with Rusty through the park in the yellow sunshine filled her head. She was half-awakened by a brief jostling and could just barely hear a sing-songy voice say “Bon Voyage, Captain!” and the sound of the door shutting.
Captain Whiskers saw herself in her mind talking to Rusty, “Even the way my hooman says my title irks me. It’s like she thinks I’m the captain of the Love Boat, not the leader of cat-armies that I actually am!”
Unphased, Captain Whiskers kept snoozing and dreaming. The images shifting to a revolutionary battlefield as Lieutenant Rusty and herself led the feline charge up the hill against redcoat wearing rats. “Ugh…the only thing worse than rats are British rats. Hold your claws until you see the grimy yellow of their eyes!”
I'm excited for what's next for Captain Whiskers!