Her Royal Highness Princessa
Princessa always knew that everything the light touches was hers to keep. Everything. From the moment she was born, until the moment she chooses to go—this was her fate.
Her first family found her abandoned, the runt of the litter. Tiny, feeble, scared—she was dirty and weak. They took her home to be theirs. They named her Princessa, after a Puerto Rican pop star, fitting for a spirited royal.
Circumstances changed, and she found herself moving to the Village, where she lives comfortably with a Man and a Woman. She came to their apartment, up 3 flights of stairs with an undeniable roar. Stuck in a cage that was too big for her, up the stairs she goes, and the whole time: “MEOOWWWW. MEEE-OOWWWW.” As if she was screaming, “LET MEEEE-OOUTTT. LET MEEEE-OUUTTT.” For princesses do not belong in cages, and she is not one to be held captive.
The Man often went to work wearing slacks and a button up shirt, sleeves always rolled up to his elbow. He left his tennis shoes at home for her to sleep in. Sometimes she would play make-believe and try on his shoes. One paw in each shoe, pretending to go into an office, whatever an office is.
For a little bit, the Woman was at home all day. Every morning, after the Man left, and after he bestowed upon both her and the Woman a light kiss, Princessa would seek out the Woman and lie down nearby. Always maintaining a careful distance, but also eagerly waiting for the Woman to scoop her up and cradle her. The Woman would always whisper love words to her, assure her that she’s softest and the most beautiful, and stroke her chin ever so gently as they rock back and forth to the rhythm of the city outside. Tiny moments of happiness before Princessa decides when enough is enough and demands down; she is simply too dignified for such unnecessary forms of affection.
At first she went for months without making a peep, but always flashing those big eyes that seem to say enough. With a sharp glance, she was able to display hunger, irritation, anger, excitement, contentment, joy, among other things. She knew her presence was a treat, and her silence was a part of it. When it was finally convenient for her to love the Man and the Woman, she started sneaking them occasional purrs, but only slipping her approval here and there. Because she knew scarceness breeds desire and attention.
Princessa enjoys the finer things in life, including the whipped cream from the Woman’s coffee, fresh turkey from a reputable deli (NOT the grocery store), the tuna sandwich from Pret A Manger, and the renowned banana pudding from Magnolia Bakery. She also appreciates the different textures of all the rugs in her home, taking ownership of them as soon as the Woman unrolls each one.
Things she does not enjoy: the dog, when the dog tries to play and smuts her designer fur coat, when the dog steals her treats, when the dog tries to join her in bed, when the dog pokes her head in the tunnel without permission, and when the dog walks by her. Each occurrence deserves a spiteful swipe, and each swipe needs to be met with complete submission.
As Princessa got older, she maintained her petite 6-pound frame. For 6 pounds was more than enough for a princess cat, and any more would just be an indulgence. Though always provided with an abundance of treats and meals, she is careful with her portions, often times turning her nose up at the same treats she happily accepted just a few minutes ago.
Nowadays, Princessa enjoys her moments of solitude, often spending them looking outside the window, as if in a trance. A recluse is not the word she would pick out for herself. Nor an introvert. Definitely not a hermit. She hates hermits. On occasion, when the Man and the Woman invites her to venture outside her abode, she resists with all her might. For she does not want to mingle with the outside world, with its filth and noise. She much prefers her Persian rug, her soft bed, and the unreachable perch of her window. So she can watch over everything. Everything the light touches.