My days are filled with playful shrieks of children, excited to stroke my fur. I would be a liar if I said I didn't enjoy it. Some of them are rough, but it's a small price to pay for the life I've been given. At least, that's what the street cats lead me to believe. Rather, their insults that find their way to my ears nightly. They don't know my real name, so they decided to call me "Edgar the PUSSY cat.". It's a clever name, I'll give them that; much more clever than "Snuffles" the name my six year old adoptive human sister decided was fitting. We know nothing about each other, me and the other cats, nothing but what the glass frame of the window allows us to see. I get a much better view of their lives than they do mine from this towering structure I live in. But they still seem to find a way to get higher than I can ever imagine. Must be all the cat-nip I've heard such wild rumors about. Not that I have a blooming social life; matter of fact, my best friend seems to be the sun shine I always lay at the window to enjoy. But I still manage to over hear passer-bys.

"!سنافلز"

  I might not understand what my sister says most of the time, but that tone, and that specific set of sound is her usually calling me. She tries to have conversations with me, but it seems we haven't found a common language. Although, it seems my humans do not use language for anything that cannot be explained by a simple meow. They feed all day, and watch the entertainment box. The food they eat looks appetizing, but I have given up trying to eat with them. They never share. Not even with their servants, the other humans they provide shelter, food and small papers for. I wouldn't want to eat with them anyway, not after seeing the disgusting things the servants put in the food. To be fair, though, my humans do get off their couches once in a while. Five times daily to be specific, whenever the singing man is heard.