Nobody plays with me anymore. Sometimes I sit and stare at my favorite shoelace, lifelessly draped over the handrail of the rarely used treadmill in the spare bedroom. There was a time when I would have tapped it with my paw and brought it to life myself, but these days I just don’t have the motivation to. Things that used to bring me pleasure now just seem like reminders of my loneliness. I don’t feel like playing.
Last month I barely moved. I got up once a day or so to relieve myself in the potted plant in the living room, but then I went right back to the arm of the sofa. My servants, the large, beige things that wait on me, barely noticed. They used to constantly clean me, feed me, and entertain me, but nowadays I’m starting to think that I’m nothing more than a litter box to clean and a food bowl to fill as far as the help is concerned. I’m invisible, and why shouldn’t I be? I even bore myself.
The smallest servant, the one with the squeaky voice, likes to throw my jingle ball across the floor from time to time, but lately I just ignore it. It can chase the jingle ball itself if it thinks that chasing things is so great, I don’t have the energy and even if I did, what would be the point? Life would just be dull and uninteresting again as soon as the game was over. The jingle ball is a waste of time.
Last week the big servant, the one who usually feeds me, put me in a box and took me on a car ride. Instead of putting up a loud fight and moaning in discontent like I used to, I let it do whatever it wanted with me. Nothing could be worse than this place, though I seriously doubt that anyplace else is going to be any better. When it opened my box, another servant in a white coat looked in my eyes with a light, stole a vial full of my blood, and stuck a thermometer in my butt. The last time this happened, I scratched the servant in the white coat with all my indignant fury, but this time I just grumbled. Whatever.
The last couple of days, after eating my dinner, the servants have been holding me down and shoving a little yellow pill down the back of my throat. Either they are trying to kill me or they think I’m one of them. Typical.
I’ve noticed that, since I’ve started taking the pills, I feel like playing a bit more. Just yesterday I took it upon myself to knock my jingle ball across the kitchen floor and then chase it. I almost purred but stopped myself.
After they forced the pill down my throat today, I had an epiphany. Maybe it’s not me that is boring, maybe it’s them. Maybe I’m not the lazy one, maybe they just took me on as a responsibility when I was little and cute, and now that I’m grown and exert my own independence, they don’t want to take the time every day to play with me like they should. Maybe the pills are just enabling them to continue to be lazy, selfish things.
I guess if I’m to be ignored, then the pills are better than nothing. It seems absurd, though, considering all I really want is to be exercised and mentally stimulated properly. Oh well. If they were smarter, they wouldn’t be my servants, would they?