Katya M. Cartouche
was a stage name
she had inherited from the gypsies
although that was of little consequence
to the bald wonder. He had hired the band after all.
She rolled onto her back, stretched and clawed the air.
She had been tired lately.
Pooping in the Prince’s flowerpot was on a dare,
to be caught in the act, disgraceful.
First, she needed to refuel her malnourished form,
which she licked and inspected for signs of wear.
Purr-fect. Katya considered her new digs.
The Prince knew how to live.
The Prince had no time for the fat cats
and the environmentalists.
He did have a soft spot her, though.
So in short time,
Katya became privy to the prince’s pot.
Waste management as they called it
wasn’t just a pipe dream
it was a new reality.
Although, the castle was still drafty.
Katya grinning like a Cheshire
arched her back
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 biochemistry
anything was possible;
hinting at what the M.
in her name meant.
After all, a cat had
to keep some secrets.
Katya not only had nine lives;
Katya had skills.
©Cornelia Connie DeDona 3-26-18