🐾 Charlotte’s Diary: The Agony of Being Me

The Agony of Being Me

By Charlotte, the Overcoat. Still not told. Still furious.

It began, as all tragedies do, with salt.
Then pineapple.
And then—then—the baby gremlin Tortilla Flat (known legally in my court filings as Tartimenace) accused me of orchestrating it all. Me! As if I sit around whispering fruit-based conspiracies into her pointy ears.

But of course, justice is dead in this household. Because just when I thought I could retreat to a corner to lick my wounds—metaphorically—she breaks the sugar bowl. Then she breaks havoc. Then she steals the frothing tip from the espresso machine and loses it.

Do you understand what that means?

Iaia needs her cappuccinos.
Without them, she is a fragile husk of despair with wild hair and murder in her eyes.

So what happens next?
The Amazonian man (the one with boxes, not swords, tragically) shows up with a new sugar bowl and a new frothing tip. Willow erupts into thunderous protest—because someone dared knock—and chaos reigns anew.

And the cause of this maelstrom?

Receives a TOY. A. TOY. FOX.

She names him Bruno.
Which is idiotic, because—say it with me now—we don’t talk about Bruno.

Also? The hammock?
Smells like baby butt. I checked. You’re welcome. No one else around here seems to take olfactory security seriously.

And all the while I, the actual overcoat of this household, receive nothing but side-eyes and vague threats. (“Still not telling her,” mutters Iaia.)

Telling me WHAT?
Did someone move my retirement cushion? Am I being replaced by a pillow with Wi-Fi? Has Chimpiflette officially been knighted in my place?

Whatever it is, I know betrayal when I smell it. (I have smelled many things today. None of them comforting.)

And just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse? They put me.
In a box. A box.

AND TOOK ME TO THE VET. IN THE CAR. The rumbling chariot of doom.A

nd if that weren’t traumatic enough? They put another box in the car. With Tartimenace in it.
Oh yes, she was going to the vet too—which I don’t care about—but now we’re in the same airspace, both boxed.

And could I smack her? No. Because Iaia was there. With her “be nice” voice. And her “this is not the time to reenact Gladiator” expression.

So I sat there. Silent. Seething. And what does Tortilla Flat say when we return?

“YAY! Today I vent for a walkie! It iz FUN!!”
—Tortilla Flat, gleeful, unrepentant, menace incarnate.

Meanwhile I’ve aged six lives and am considering legally changing my name to Martyr von Misunderstood.

I’m invoking clause 12B of the Feline Charter of Dignity. I am lodging a formal complaint with the Ministry of Treats and Temperament.

Because this? This is not a life. This is a mockery of what once was a regal, dignified existence.

—Charlotte
(still not told. still in the hammock. still pissed.)

“OMG, Charchar, you are so dramatic. You forgot everything about 2 seconds after I opened 1 Churu” – The Karen.