Katya M. Cartouche

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

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