It’s only after the third time that I decide to cease my morning tongue bath and react, navigating mountains of Shu Eumura, arching my neck around Karl’s little castle. “Here I am, baby.”
9:22 a.m. I’m due a second brushing. I knead Karl’s Klorane hair pad to get the point across. White like pleated tuxedo cuff dress shirts. Oh, I know. I’m not a bad girl, but you try oat milk for normal hair on your Jacobson organ and let me know. Look! My favorite plaything: an empty Colette shopping bag. Hurry, woman! Woman, lift me up now!
11:02 a.m. Tidbit of paté again (jelly sauce, when not caviar-sweet, really tweaks my feline sensibilities). We all know Karl doesn’t like big girls, so I’ll just dawdle around the silver-glinted edges of my Goyard bowls sitting at the table. She’s late with my nip again. I’ll just turn my ears sideways with my rear end slightly raised. There she is, now just sprinkle some on the diamond encrusted hand mirror and walk away...
11:32 a.m. Waited exactly 30 minutes after last meal before sipping my fresh water cocktail (to avoid dilution of digestive enzymes). I’ll share the recipe with you minions, only because it’s been printed in my book, Choupette: The Private Life of a High-Flying Fashion Cat.
FRESH WATER COCKTAIL FROM THE WATER BAR AT COLETTE Ingredients
At room temperature One bottle of Chantemerle (France) One bottle of Fashion (Austrian Alps) One bottle of Aquapax (Germany) One bottle of Blue Keld (UK)
Preparation Fill a glass one quarter full with Chantmerle. Add an equal dash from each of the other four waters and stir gently for a few seconds.
Decant into a bowl and serve immediately.
1:20 p.m. Time for my daily tweet: Adore older men who buy u Vuitton luggage (think of all the lap time he gets) I deserve it #FAVcrotch. 2B picky is 2B a dominant pussy #Purrfect. Yes, that’s a full day’s work. Such responsibilities I have. Evangelista is direct messaging again—she’s still crushing on me. Did you see that? Dior tails!
4:45 p.m. In Karl’s bed with my favorite servant Francoise, wrapped up in his Hilditch & Key custom full-length nightshirt. Remember Laetitia, you know she’s thinking of me still, my immaculate Burmese draped around her skinny neck. Yeah, you are welcome. Careers, I’m full of them. And that toy mouse isn’t faking anyone—I’ll just slap it once or twice so it knows who runs this place. The gumption…
7:30 p.m. He’s at his desk, Diet Coke in hand, wearing the black pants with his face printed on them. He should be writing letters, but he can’t resist the endless depth of these blue eyes—like an ocean full of La Maison du Caviar goodies. He takes his gloves off and I know he’s serious about stroking my voluptuous cheeks behind the whiskers.
8:00 p.m. That Grumpy Cat, so ungodly middle-class, somebody buy her a laser light pointer.
And the drab uniformity of that Maru with his “Fresh Stepping,” imagine, I don’t even go to the bathroom, how plebeian. And they call me a monster…
9:05 p.m. What, you think I’m going to purr for you now?