Remember how I had a collar? And how Scooter likes to kick my collar off? Well, it came off a while back, and it’s staying off.
Mrs Danvers still thinks she can put it on again. That’s where she’s wrong.
I can read her thoughts. “Come here, little kitty, have this nice name tag and collar on so that you’ll know where you live!” Come here little kitty and be branded as Mrs Danvers’ property, more like! Renounce all freedoms! Subject yourself to human control and soppy fussing and petting!
I just give her The Look.
I have stayed out of her way for days now. When she speaks to me I won’t look at her, and I won’t speak to her either, although I will chirrup at the others. I run away when she comes into a room. Scooter sometimes runs away with me. We work as a team.
We are driving Mrs Danvers mad, she says; we are dimwits, she says; she’s not a mad axe-woman, she says, with a grudge against cats. Scooter and I sneer at this.
This is the face I use for her. Dumb insolence, she calls it.
She says “You’re first for the pot if there’s a famine, Hamish.”
You’ll have to catch me first, Mrs Danvers.