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I like Kelvin, my master. He’s cool.

I used to be a black and white kitten, but bit by bit my fur became multicoloured and my mind went a bit nuts. I’d consumed more of Kelvin’s leftovers that he’d dropped on the floor than organic cat biscuits. This diet consisting of pizza crumbs, weird mushrooms, an assortment of dregs from the bottom of cups and white powder produced in me a psychedelic look. I’m not complaining; now I’m original, unique, and a standout. That’s what the female cats of the district tell me as they turn their backs on the fastidiously licked tomcats. It’s well known that they prefer Irish rogue tomcats, the bad boy type.

I take advantage of this. I go from one conquest to the next, those who want to have a ball and miaow with me. Not only that, but I do well in this respect, much more so than my master, who isn’t so lucky with the ladies. Kelvin too was normal when he was very young, but everything went down the pan when he reached adolescence. When he took me in, the neighbours gossiped behind his back, calling him a weirdo, a punk, a druggy – albeit a good-natured one.

After a long period of eating his leftovers and breathing the same air as him, it was on the cards that I would finish up looking like him. The women of the district and their children no longer took me in their arms. Our three-minute care routine resulted in a hairy, entangled skin – and a lingering smell.

As far as love life (so to speak) is concerned, the difference for me is that far from hindering it, it enhances it. I think the beautiful redhead next door has a soft spot for me.  I make the most of this and nearly every day get some cat biscuits and kind words out of her. She has curves in all the right places; even Kelvin looks at her longingly. Thing is though she is shacked up with a professional boxer; Kelvin with his poorly distributed fifty-seven kilos has very slow reflexes, he holds back. Kelvin’s chances of getting back on top of things are screwed.

Also, when we go to the vet’s, the assistant brushes me a little before stroking me; for Kelvin, nothing, zilch. The vet worries about our health. I can tell that he is undecided about treating Kelvin, he is afraid of what the Medical Association might say. For my part, I purr in the arms of the blonde and make my hair stand on end when he wants to take me.

My life suits me. But they’ve said that I won’t live beyond nine years. Nine years of a false paradise, of freedom and a raucous love life. It’s better than twelve long years of emasculation, obesity and limited freedoms. In the consulting room, they don’t speak out loud in front of me.

Kelvin’s the one I’m worried about – who will look out for him when I’m gone? Look at this crazy activity today: some apples thrown on a bit of pastry and there you go, in the oven. The effort of this made him want to lie down, he collapsed on the sofa. On his tablet, he has tried to follow a meeting entitled ‘Quantum Spirituality’.  It hasn’t been in vain, I smelt the burning and jumped onto his tablet, miaowing. I love apple tarts.


Andre Gouyneau was born in 1948 in Orleans in the Loire Valley. He currently lives in New Caledonia, an island in the South Pacific. 


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