Her name is Muki and just like her namesake and other partner in crime Naji, she is a terrorist. She came to us when she was merely three months old, writes Minoo Shah
This abuse must stop. I plead for compassion. It’s been going on for a while now and I refuse to sweep it under the rug anymore. I say enough is enough. The slapping, scratching, sudden attacks, and all because breakfast was not served on time? I pleaded that we had run out of butter and was answered by a kick on the shins. It’s not that I am a wimp, I know my rights and as such I have called 911 on several occasions and even pressed charges but she gets away on technicalities. You are my last resort, please make this public, write on your social media #Justice4Minoo#. Let me acquaint you with the tale of horrors:
In the beginning all was well, there was occasional playful hitting, some sneaky stealing of my blings, temper tantrums – all of which I took in my stride, shrugging it off as of it were a phase. As years went by, the behavior got worse. It got to a point that I would lie awake in fear at night wondering when the next attack would occur. I tried locking my door, but there was incessant knocking and I relented in sheer exhaustion. I got to a stage when I resorted to open cursing, and did not care if the neighbors heard me. May be someone would come to my rescue? But all I got were condemning looks that said, “you’ve brought this upon yourself, now live with it!”
You want me to come to the point and name names? I am ready, so here goes – her name is Muki and just like her namesake and other partner in crime Naji, she is a terrorist. She came to us when she was merely three months old. We cosseted her, bought her the most expensive toys money could buy, her quarters were designed by none other than DKNY. She was fed imported salmon, fresh cream served in silver and groomed at the best of salons. Even though we de-clawed her, they grew back when she reached puberty. She developed an attitude that made my sixteen-year daughter seem like a saint I started giving in to Muki just to keep peace in the house. She did not care for land of lakes butter, so I started buying her the Kerry Gold. She wanted lactose free treats so I spent a fortune on overnight deliveries from Paris. Then, one day I said enough! I put her in a crate and kept her there for a couple of hours. She mewed and shrieked so loud that the SPCA (Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals) knocked down my door. I still shudder remembering the lecture I received from the accompanying cop, “Ma’am, you should be ashamed of yourself. How could you restrain something that cannot speak for themselves”? (sidenote) -While I was being read this riot act, Muki was slyly smirking.
So, until today, I silently took her hissing, clawing, pulling my hair, jumping on me, and pummeling me in the middle of the night. I have ensured that her pat of butter is by her bowl when she wakes up and have started wearing ski suits in the middle of summer to prevent gashes on my skin. Albeit my vocabulary has gone from the Queen’s English to that of the ‘kolis from Byculla’ and the decibels of my voice have reached mach proportions. But God is my witness!
By the time this goes to print, and you hear of a feline ‘hari-kari’, do not let your bleeding hearts cry out in mercy. For she has only lost one of her nine lives. Presently, as I type this article, she is swatting me in defiance and hissing, “Just you wait, you ain’t seen nothing yet!”
Anyone want a cute cat?
