The one who’d been walking along so confidently suddenly came to a stop. Simon found himself mildly impressed by the creature’s sharpness—it had made its way straight to the vicinity of the meeting hall where the Crown Prince was.
However, after standing there and looking around, the cat began acting a little strange. It turned its body as if to retrace its steps, then hesitated for a moment. After that, it began walking straight ahead without fail. If the straight path was blocked, it turned right and continued straight again. When the path was blocked once more, it turned right again and kept going.
It had been repeating that bizarre pattern of movement for over an hour now. Only then was Simon finally able to reach a conclusion. The cat was lost. Otherwise, there was no way it would keep circling the same garden over and over again.
Good heavens. A lost cat. In this imperial palace, with such wide-open surroundings.
It was fundamentally impossible. It shouldn’t happen.
A cat might be small, but it was undeniably a predator. There was no way it could possess such catastrophically poor sense of direction. And yet Simon had been following directly behind it for quite some time now, and the cat hadn’t noticed him even once.
Suddenly, the cat stopped walking. Simon assumed it had finally grown tired. The cat stood still, lifted its head, and looked up at the sky. Watching the cat stare blankly upward, Simon felt an inexplicable twinge of pity.
After gazing at the sky for a while, the cat’s torso swelled outward, then sank back down. It looked like it had sighed. After letting out that deep sigh, the cat suddenly opened its mouth and began wailing loudly.
How long have I been crying at the top of my lungs? Just as I was starting to worry I might lose my voice, I spot my patron in the distance. Even though there are plenty of humans milling about and murmuring nearby, my patron’s face jumps out at me immediately. Still seated where I am, I let out a single, drawn-out cry toward him.
“Aoong—”
My patron walks toward me. With every step he takes, people part to make way for him. When he reaches me, he extends a hand and lightly scoops me up. Dangling helplessly in the air, I look into my patron’s golden eyes, and all of a sudden, a wave of sorrow surges up inside me.
Kyaaak—!
Why are you only coming now?! I almost died from my throat hurting! If I die, are you gonna take responsibility, huh?!
I scratch his forearm in irritation, and the humans around us let out shrieks. I glare at my patron with a what are you gonna do about it look. Let’s be fair here—this is my patron’s fault. If I call you, you’re supposed to come running right away.
“……”
As I huff and puff in his grasp, his golden eyes slowly lower. I follow his gaze and see the forearm I just scratched. Blood beads up from the slightly split skin, then trickles down along his flesh. After checking his wound, my patron lifts his eyes and looks back at me.
Kyaaak—!!
…W-What?! What are you gonna do if you keep staring?! You gonna throw me or something?!
I flail my sharp claws through the air and throw a full-blown tantrum, but he doesn’t react. Staring into those silent golden eyes, I quietly retract my claws. It’s not because I’ve calmed down, and it’s not because I’m scared. It’s just that I’m worried this gentle, kind patron of mine might get hurt if I overdo it.
“Your Highness. Are you all right?”
At some point, Simon has come over and asks my patron. The look in Simon’s eyes as he stares at me is so vicious it seems like he might skin me on the spot. I start to feel just a tiny bit worried.
I sneak a glance at my patron. He’s still silent. Just holding me dangling in the air and staring at me. When I look again, blood is still welling up from his forearm.
…What, are you mad? Is a grown-ass man really getting mad over just that?
My patron seems pretty shaken. Or maybe he’s actually angry. It’s ridiculous—he’s not even considering his own fault and is sulking over a tiny scratch. I want to argue with him right now, but unfortunately, I’m a cat. I can’t talk.
I make up my mind to apologize. Not because I did anything wrong. And definitely not because I’m scared he might throw me. I’m just worried this innocent, kind patron of mine might be hurt.
Nnyaaang—
I let out a gentle cry, turn my head, and start licking the wound on my patron’s forearm. Licking an unsanitized wound is honestly concerning, but still—he is the Crown Prince. Surely he doesn’t have filthy germs or some disease.
After a few careful licks, I glance up and see those golden eyes staring straight at me. I pretend to lick a little more diligently than before. But only briefly—my stomach turns, and I really can’t continue.
Blegh. Blood tastes awful. It’s like sucking on a rusty coin. Blegh. Blegh.
I smack my tongue with lingering disgust and look up at him with the most innocent expression I can muster. I recall that pleading Puss in Boots meme I once saw online and try to imitate it as closely as possible.
Are you still mad? Like, really mad? You’re not gonna throw me, right? You’re not gonna hit me, right? You’re not seriously gonna get mad at a cat this cute and well-behaved, are you? Really?
When I stare at him quietly with wide, pure eyes, my patron finally pulls me into his arms. I cling tightly to his chest and let out a sigh of relief. Yeah. There’s no way this kind guy would throw me. I worried for nothing.
Looking at the wound on his forearm, I feel genuinely sorry.
Honestly, getting lost was my fault—not his. I think I should make it up to him a little today. I’ll even do some cute acts I normally never do for the sake of my dignity.
I rub my head against my patron’s chest as he walks, deliberately acting cute. My face feels hot with embarrassment at how shameless I’m being, but I endure it.
Nnyaang— nnya—
Patron. Patron. My legs hurt, I’m thirsty, and I’m hungry too.
As I whine and complain while acting cute, my patron strokes my head. Then he orders the attendant walking beside him to prepare water and food for me. I’m starting to seriously suspect he can understand what I’m saying.
Anyway, I realize something important today. There’s an old saying: once you leave home, you suffer. In my case, it seems that once I leave my patron, I suffer. A cat raised with as much pampering as me has no business enduring hardship. Nestled securely in my patron’s arms, I decide that from now on, wherever I go, I’m taking him with me.
Nnyaaaang—
Patron. You’re not allowed to leave me alone and go anywhere anymore, okay?
I pat his chest with my front paw as if to emphasize my words, and he strokes my head. I don’t know whether he understands me or not, but it doesn’t matter. Just like he always has, my patron will listen to everything I say.
***
Mmmng—
I stretch my entire body and let out a long yawn. Even though I’ve just woken up, instead of feeling cranky, my body feels so languid it’s like it might melt. I tilt my head back and look upward. My patron’s calm golden eyes meet mine and curve ever so slightly. That’s his version of a shy good-morning greeting. I return the greeting by opening my mouth wide in a massive yawn.
I’m awake, but I don’t feel like getting up. I lie there fully stretched out, enjoying my patron’s touch.
My patron’s hand is huge, so when he pets my head, he uses just one finger. When he slowly strokes from the bridge of my nose all the way to the back of my neck, it feels unbelievably good. At first, he used his whole palm to pet my head, but then I’d have to flatten my ears back every time his hand moved. I tolerated it a few times before finally smacking his hand away without mercy. He understood immediately and has used only one finger to pet my head ever since.
After petting my head for a while, he moves on to my body.
His large palm doesn’t need to move much to cover my entire body. After one long stroke from my head to my tail, his hand has to lift away briefly—and I absolutely hate that moment. It’s only one or two seconds at most, but hate is hate. Still, there’s nothing that can be done. He can’t exactly go straight back up from bottom to top. If he did, my glossy, ultra–top-grade fur would be completely messed up.
Once he’s finished petting my body, my patron starts timidly indulging his own desires. He taps my ears lightly with his fingertips or fiddles with my whiskers. Honestly, I don’t like it. But since it’s my patron’s touch, I generously put up with it. Of course, if he does it too many times, I smack his hand away with the tip of my tail. When that happens, he immediately withdraws without being clingy.
There’s one part of my patron’s morning petting routine that’s especially troublesome—strangely so.
Sometimes his fingers briefly rub the spot where my tail meets my hips. When that happens, a sharp electric sensation shoots up my spine. I don’t want to react, but my body doesn’t listen to my mind. My whole body twitches, and I’m momentarily intoxicated by that unavoidable shiver. Half of me wants to tell him to stop, and the other half wants him to keep going.
When the morning petting finally ends, I reluctantly lift my body from the bed. Ah—by “bed,” I mean my patron’s chest.
My patron’s chest is so broad I can roll around on it freely. I’ve concluded that his chest is a queen-size bed and have been making full use of it every night.
It’s not like I lack sleeping spots, of course.
My patron’s maids have become downright enthusiastic about serving me. Thanks to that, I own several handmade cushions and mats they’ve gifted me. They’re luxurious and comfortable, and I do use them often. But when it comes to sleeping at night, I always return to my patron’s chest-bed. The maids assume it’s because their cushions don’t meet my standards and stomp their feet in frustration. They vow that tonight, he’ll definitely use them and proceed to upgrade my cushions yet again.
No matter how comfortable or fancy they get, I have no intention of giving up my patron’s chest-bed—but I don’t bother telling the maids that. Let sleeping dogs lie.
Anyway, once I climb down from my patron’s chest with lingering regret, my daily routine begins.
The maids enter carrying gleaming washbasins.
As my patron washes his face and brushes his teeth with their assistance, I do the same beside him. My exclusive maid, Julia, uses her dampened hand to gently wipe around my eyes and mouth. Sometimes my eye gunk sticks to her fingers, which is a bit embarrassing—but I pretend not to notice. After washing up, Julia presents me with a small, round green bundle. It’s a fragrant ball made of dried herbs. I chew it thoroughly and spit it out, and that concludes my tooth-brushing.
Once washing and brushing are done, my patron changes clothes. I climb onto my personal grooming chair and receive brushing instead of getting dressed. As the careful brushing continues, I feel an overwhelming urge to flop over on my back. I fight that instinct with all my might. If I gave in and sprawled out just because of some brushing, all the dignity I’ve built up until now would be shaved away in an instant.
