Having lived with humans and observed their ways, I have to say they're a selfish lot. All the more so when it comes to those children with whom I sometimes share a bed. On a whim, they'll turn one upside down, stick a bag over one's head, toss one about, or stuff one into the hearth. To make matters worse, any false step on my part and I'm chased down by the entire household and persecuted severely. The other day I used the tatami, just a bit, to sharpen my claws. The wife grew irate and banished me from the parlor. She cared not the least that I shivered on the cold kitchen floor.
Shiro, the cat across the way whom I admire greatly, always tells me there's nothing so heartless as humans. The other day, four kittens, each a small bundle of fur, were born to him. Then on the third day, as he relates it, the boarding student took all four out back to the pond and returned alone. After telling this tale with tears in his eyes, he added that we felines, for the sake of our children and the integrity of our families, must rise up and annihilate the human race. I can't say I disagree. Miké too, who lives next door, takes great exception to human disregard for property rights. Among us cats, the right to eat a sardine head or mullet belly has always belonged to the first finder. Failure to respect this convention can be fairly countered with physical force. Humans, it seems, are oblivious to this concept. They routinely rob us of duly discovered delicacies. Resorting to force, they snatch away that which is rightfully ours to eat. Shiro lives in a soldier's home, and Miké's master is an attorney. As a teacher's cat, I'm easier going than my fellows. I take life a day at a time. The days of humans must surely be numbered. I'll bide my time, patiently, and wait for the age of the cat.