Katya M. Cartouche
was a stage name
she had inherited from the gypsies
although that was of little consequence
to the bald headed wonder. He had hired the band after all.
She rolled onto her back, stretched and clawed the air.
She had been tired and ill lately.
Pooping in the Prince’s flower pot
was on a dare and to be caught in the act, disgraceful.
First she needed to recharge her malnourished form
which she quickly licked and inspected for signs of wear.
Purr-fect. The Prince knew how to live.
The Prince, took little notice of the
fat cats and the environmentalists.
He did have a soft spot for gypsies, though.
In short time Katya had become privy to the privy.
Waste management as they called it
wasn’t just a pipe dream
it was reality.
Although the castle was still drafty.
Katya grinned like a Cheshire
she would make him think it was his idea,
He would fall hard.
Before long she would reign over all of them and
their royal waste could be collected and sold to the serfs as fertilizer
and with a minor in bio-chemistry anything was possible;
hinting at what the M. in her name stood for.
After all a cat had to keep some secrets.
Katya not only had nine lives; Katya had skills.