The rattling sound always made my ears perk up before I even wake up. Slowly, subconciously, the consequent meaning of the noise would be processed and automatically, I'd stir from my deep sleep (meaning corner of a loveseat and curled into a ball of fur) "FURBALL! Dinner's ready!", He shouts. I wonder how he'd like it if his owner named him in that same fashion of ironic, sadistic manner he calls cute and humourous. Imagine: "LAZYASS! Come give momma a kiss!"(That's what they call their owners in their language. Momma, mother, mom, ma and a whole array of other words. Quite redundant if you ask me.

This man doesnt deserve my company. Yet I'm compelled to stay. Call it fate, call it a life calling as a pet, call it a means to a secure, stable dinner time. Lunch and breakfast too for that matter.

There he is, my 'master' and the pack of dinner waiting to be poured into my waiting bowl and then into my waiting mouth. Then it'd wait some more before coming out of my waiting end and onto a unwanting, non-waiting patch of land. My dinner? Dried, hence the rattling. He's too cheap to go out and buy the fancy, wet types. Sigh. This is my life. As dry as my dinner. Well, they do say you are what you eat.

Wait, whats this? My master, my dinner, and is that her? The woman he claims to be in love with? Currently at least? Love. What is that to this people? The fairytale story of happily ever after they so commonly analogise it with? Or is it something you feel when 1 out of 50 treats you a little nicer than the other 49 would bother to? The latter applies for my master. Must be the same for the others too right? Dumb species. And we're suppose to be the pets? What cruel fate lies for us.

Here's a secret, she doesnt know it YET, but their chanced meeting wasnt the 'Oh-I'm-sorry-I-didnt-mean-to-bump-into-you-and-spill-your-coffee-Let-me-buy-you-another'as she would have thought it was. He's been stalking her and planning that chanced meeting since she smiled at him at the supermarket. I suppose she chanced to smile at him. So maybe it counts as a chanced meeting after all. He's like me I suppose, lurking in the background stealthily, waiting for the right opportunity to pounce.

The opportunity came, outside a starbucks. She was carrying coffee and so the 'chance' meeting took place. He pounced. The had coffee. Now they're having dinner. So am I. They sit on the loveseat and talked. Drank wine. Laugh. He had that usual glinter in his eyes. Making sure, and priding in the fact, that everything was going according to plan. No, he won't have chance messing this up. He loved her. But leve never lasts. So he'll make sure this love will last till the end. Till her end anyway.

They kiss. Why would any girl kiss him? Was it the wine? It sure wasnt his good looks or fat wallet. He had neither. No. He had something else. Another quality he and I both share. He had that charm about him. The kind that got me and thousands of my kind around the world a shelter, food and a cosy corner of their own. Charm. They move from the loveseat to the bed. And they made it into a lovebed. I watch. Licking my paw and rubbing my fur as I watch. They're going at it like, like... Well, like cats in heat. I went back to my dried dinner while they continued at their wet dessert. This is gonna take a while. I ate and went back to sleep. The soft moans choreographed my catwalk from the kitchen to the loveseat, the jump onto my lil cosy corner, the stretch, the curling into a ball and it lullabied me into sleep.

"Rattle!Rattle!" My ears perked up, I stirred awake. Was it breakfast already? I follow the sound. Automatically. False alarm. Nothing worth getting excited over, just a necklace being dragged against the floorboards. I watch. This is part of their love making. Part of his anyway.

When he's done, he carefully puts her in a garbage bag. He handled her gracefully. A final kiss before sealing up the bag. The lovebag. I watch. He carries her out the door. I wonder where he's bringing her. I wonder if this is a continuation of their first date, or does it count as a second?

I stop wondering. I'm getting old. 9 lives I have and I just watched the 7th one go. Not much time left, Furball. I accept the name. I resign to it. I don't have the fight I had as a younger kitten. No, I'm getting old. Furball's pretty cute actually, I think. Not much time left, better make the most out of it.

So I catwalked to the loveseat, jumped onto my cosy corner, stretched nd curled into my name. My fate. No music to accompany me this time. So I lullabied myself to sleep. Purrrr. Soft, sweet.

I wonder what's for breakfast.

I rambled rambled rambled at 11:31 PM