Nine lives with knaves

I stand, looking down at the ground, then with a jaded look, I shift my gaze toward her.

"The keys, where did I put my keys?!" She grits her teeth.

She frantically scurries the living room, teary-eyed. Panic is second nature to this pitiful woman. Even in all my centuries living among humans, I have never met a person with such a pathetic disposition. Although in her defense, I was fortunate with the servitude of great people, so there's that.

Had she just taken a breath and stood still for a second, she would have noticed the keys were simply in her grasp.

Goodness, what an absent-minded sod!

In all my nine lives, I have never found myself in such misery. And for my life's last embers to be in the company of such a person, I realize fate's bounty to me was not without a price.

I can see its sneering grin awaiting me in the afterlife.

"Fuck you."

My first memory was of a tent in remote but fertile meadows of the far east. It was one of the many tents pitched by a steppe tribe of the north there. When I grew up, I was abruptly taken with them on horseback toward unknown lands. The man who took a liking to me was fond of scratching my back. His name was something Khan if my memory doesn't fail me.

I suddenly feel the urge to scratch, albeit not my back. I gently lick my nether. "Ah..." A blissful sensation only blemished by the trembling sobs of this brittle spirited companion of mine. Her eyes downcast, sporting an abject expression. I sigh as I stand up and then leap into her arms, forcing her to let go of the keys in an attempt to catch me.

"Whiskers, what are you- oh...!" She utters.

"So you finally realize how daft you are?" is what I want to say, but I am a cat. Cats don't talk. That would snuff the living daylight out of her. Please, don't even ask me why she chose to give me such an asinine and cliché name. Like, come on, put some effort in that, would you?

The Khan named me an odd name that means 'balls of steel' by the way.

She happily scratches my back, gently rubbing my fur. While her absent-mindedness is irritating - and sometimes borderline infuriating - I must admit, however, her touch is tender as silk and comfortable on my old bones compared to the Khan's thick skin. She attempts to kiss me, now all happy-go-lucky, but I pull away and slip out of her grasp. She then bends down and takes the keys before leaving, waving at me gleefully.

"I won't be late!" She says as she slams the door.

Now don't get me wrong. I am not all gloom and doom. I have had moments where I was genuinely happy, too, and with her no less. For instance, this woman, Sarah, has been cursed by astonishingly terrible luck with men. Four men. These men had all something in common: they, unsurprisingly, always had that dire inclination to scratch their groin way too much. Even I cannot compare. After all, my habit is, in all seriousness, nature's call. They were, however, either disrespectful, uncaring, or exploiting her overbearing kindness. One of them was a crackhead and kept abusing her into handing him money that could go up to two grands. She is honest to a fault. My wealth of experience dealing with people across the eras tells me she would be better off without these leeches whose sole ballsy aspect was scratching their balls.

The joy I had when they became my favorite scratch mat instead of the stupid yarn ball.

And then they dared to scream at her: "It's your goddamn pussy!" But you already guessed who stayed and who left in the end. She cried, licking her heart's wounds, and me, after a gruesome battle, my balls. You must always keep your weapon's edge smooth and sharp.