Don’t come near me until you call my name!
I hurled out a murderous warning and closed my eyes. Nestled between the plush cushions, it wasn’t cold or uncomfortable, but without the patron’s body heat or the sound of his heartbeat, I felt strangely forlorn for no reason. I flicked my tail, thinking that all of this was the patron’s fault anyway.
…Huh?
The moment I opened my eyes, I froze, eyes going wide at the sight before me. I clearly fell asleep on the sofa last night, so why on earth is the patron’s face right in front of me? I lift my head to check, and just like always, I’m lying sprawled out on top of the patron’s chest. What the hell. What is this?
While I’m trying to figure out what on earth happened, the patron slowly opens his eyes. Panicking, I quickly shut mine and pretended to still be asleep.
Maybe I climbed up onto the patron’s chest-bed without realizing it while I was sleeping. After all, before drifting off, I’d been tossing and turning all night because I missed that broad chest so much. But if that’s really what happened, how pathetic is that? I was the one who stormed off, and then I came crawling back in my sleep. No—well, maybe I don’t have to think about it that pessimistically. It’s possible the patron secretly moved me himself. Yeah. That has to be it. That lonely bastard probably waited until I fell asleep and then moved me himself.
While my thoughts spiral in complicated circles, a large hand starts stroking my back. Every time it moves, my irritation melts away like snow under the sun. This is dangerous. At this rate, I might forgive him completely. I slowly crack my eyes open, pretending like I’m just waking up. Then I’ll blink once or twice at him, put on a startled act, leap down to the floor, and hiss at the patron—keep being prickly like yesterday. That way, even if I did crawl up on my own while half-asleep, he won’t dare take me lightly. With that plan firmly in mind, I open my eyes.
But the golden eyes I meet soften instantly, brimming with a gentle smile.
“You’re awake.”
I stare blankly at those beautifully smiling golden eyes, and when he whispers those words, I let out an unintentional, “Nyaaang—.” A few seconds later, when I snap back to my senses—oh crap—it’s already too late. My throat is rumbling with a deep purr. As his hand strokes my head and body, coaxing out more purrs, I think to myself: this is just part of the plan. That’s all. I definitely, absolutely did not give up on having my name called, and I definitely didn’t fall for his eye-smile.
Well… anyway, things turned out like this, and I’ve abandoned the separate-beds strategy.
Come to think of it, sleeping separately probably wasn’t such a great idea in the first place. Why do people always say this, after all? No matter how badly a married couple fights, they still sleep in the same bed. There’s a deep, profound meaning behind that saying. I decided to boldly accept that piece of advice.
Nyaaang—
Don’t get the wrong idea! I’m not over it or anything!
When I grumble with a sulky expression, those golden eyes curve into another pretty smile. I seriously don’t get why a grown man smiles with his eyes like that. Who is he even trying to seduce? Well, since he only ever smiles like that in front of me, I guess it’s fine.
Still, how am I supposed to let the patron know my name?
Judging by his personality, he doesn’t seem like the type to just make up a name for me on his own. When he first brought me in, one of the maids once suggested that he should give me a name. Back then, the patron simply stared at me quietly and shook his head without a word. I remember letting out a sigh of relief, since I’d been worried he might call me something like “Sebastian.”
Thinking about it now, my patron really is a sensible guy. Just the fact that he doesn’t slap some weird name on me proves that. How did this guy end up so kind, gentle, capable, and even reasonable on top of all that? He’s a bit timid, sure, but everyone’s got their flaws.
I want to hurry up and turn back into a human. Then I’d be able to tell the patron my name, too.
If I turn back into a human, what would the patron say?
Would he be so shocked that he’d bolt away on the spot? Or would he get angry and demand I give him back his cat? Maybe I’d get captured by the knights and thrown into a dungeon. Who would ever believe that someone was cursed and turned from a human into a cat?
……Yeah, there’s probably no need to rush returning to being human. Staying by the side of this lonely patron a little longer doesn’t sound so bad. Right. Not bad at all.
***
My name is K. My name is K. My name is K. My name is K.
K. K. K. K. K. K. K. K. K. K. K. K. K. K. K. K. K. K. K.
No matter how I think about it, my name is pretty cool.
It’s simple, yet it gives off the strong scent of a cold city cat.
I look at the nearly completed masterpiece and feel deeply satisfied.
Right now, I’m in the middle of writing my name. No—“writing” isn’t quite the right word. “Stamping” would be more accurate. Because that’s exactly what I’m doing: stamping it.
I dunk my front paw into the ink bottle with a plop, pull it out, and press a firm paw print onto the paper. When I lift my paw, a clear print remains. Then I dip it again and stamp another print just below it. By connecting paw print to paw print, I’m forming the letter K. It sounds easy when you say it like that, but it’s absolutely not. This task requires far more effort, patience, and craftsmanship than you’d ever imagine.
At last, I finish my name. I wiggle my butt as I admire the paw prints forming the letter K. Honestly, I could debut as a paw-calligraphy artist right now. And my paw pads—just look at how perfectly shaped they are. Seriously, is there anything I can’t do?
I might not be able to write with a pen, but if I stamp out a K like this, the patron will surely realize that this is my name. Sure, he won’t be able to read it properly since the letters are different, but just one glance and my sheer charisma should be radiating off the page. He might even think I’m a charismatic genius cat.
Still, it’s a shame. I should’ve stamped this on a clean, white sheet of paper, but since I didn’t have one lying around, I had to make do with an open book.
I look at my name boldly stamped over the tiny printed letters and then turn my head away.
There’s still ink left in the bottle… and now that I look at it, it feels like a waste to stamp this beautiful work only onto a book page. Since I’ve already started, wouldn’t it be better to stamp it onto a clean, wide space instead? Yeah. This time, I’ll stamp letters with my paws and try writing with my tail as a brush, too. It’ll definitely turn out amazing.
As I scan the room, my eyes land on the white marble floor. I nod to myself and once again dunk my paw into the ink bottle with a plop.
I should finish all of this before the patron comes back from the morning meeting and give him a nice surprise.
Plop into the ink, jump down to the floor. Move into position. Press.
Jump back up, plop into the ink bottle, jump down again. Position. Press.
I’ve only done it a few times, but I’m already exhausted. I stop and glare at the ink bottle sitting on the desk. This is pointless labor. Climbing up and down every single time I want to stamp something? On top of that, ink and paw prints are getting scattered all over useless places as I go up and down. At this rate, I’ll never end up with a clean, beautiful piece.
I look around for a human to bring the ink bottle down for me, but there’s no one in the bedroom. With no other choice, I decide to do it myself. But here’s the problem: I sit next to the ink bottle, staring at it intently, and no matter how I think about it, I can’t find a way to lower it gently. I try wrapping my tail around it to lift it, but that doesn’t work either. Hmm. No choice, then. Even if it gets a little messy, I’ll just knock it down onto the floor. It’ll spill, sure, but that might actually make things easier. I won’t need to dip my paws into the bottle anymore—I can just step straight into the spilled ink. Wow. Just how much of a genius am I, really?
Puffing up with pride at my own brilliance, I boldly punch the ink bottle. The bottle lifts into the air, scattering blue liquid everywhere before crashing down onto the floor. I get splattered head to toe with ink raining down on me and let out a giggle.
…Wait. What. I just got absolutely covered in ink.
I frantically wipe my soggy head with my front paws—damn it. I used the paw that was dipped in ink. I shake my wet head hard. Droplets of ink fly everywhere around the room, but my fur is still damp. Since my fur’s black, it doesn’t really show, but I can’t just stay like this, all filthy and disheveled. I dash to the bed and rub my head all over the sheets. Rolling forward, rolling backward, rolling side to side—eventually, the damp feeling fades a little. Looking at the bed now, it’s completely smeared with blue ink. Come to think of it… stamping letters on white sheets might actually look pretty cool.
I plop all four paws into the puddle of ink on the floor—plop plop—and dunk my tail in too—plop plop. Then I stamp a huge K across the marble floor. If there’s leftover ink on my paws, no problem. I’ll just jump onto the bed and stamp all over it instead. Feeling like an artist performing avant-garde action art, I unleash my talent without restraint.
“N-Na… Nabi!”
I tilt my head at Julia’s scream.
Huh. Why?
Julia is standing next to me, her eyes brimming with tears. She’s hopping from foot to foot, completely beside herself, like she’s just seen something terrifying. I stare at her blankly, then lower my head to where her gaze is fixed.
…Huh? When did I roll around in an ink puddle?
My body is absolutely drenched in ink. Thinking back, I remember now. After finishing the letters, I stamped my body as a final touch—and it was so fun that I kept going. Looking around the room, I see huge Ks and prints of my side profile, front view, and even my butt scattered everywhere. Now that I look closer, the side-profile stamp looks exactly like the Puma sneaker mascot. That’s kind of cool.
I let out a proud “Nyaaang—” at Julia, showing off my artwork. But she doesn’t seem impressed at all. Instead, tears stream down her face as she starts shouting for the other maids. One after another, they rush in, only to burst into tears with pale, blue faces the moment they see the room. I tilt my head as I watch them cry.
What. What’s with them? Why are they crying?
“Oh no… hic.”
The maids cling to each other and wail, their expressions utterly vacant. Startled by the sound of their sobbing, the male attendants rush in as well. Even the head attendant comes running—and then freezes, completely stunned. I start to feel a little uneasy and glance around the room. To me, it just looks awesome, but apparently humans see it very differently.
“Clean it up immediately. Hurry.”
After standing there in a daze for a while, the head attendant snaps to his senses and barks out orders. Sniffling, I watch the humans scatter—and then my eyes widen in shock. This can’t be happening. They’re trying to clean up my carefully crafted masterpieces!
Kyaa—! Kack—!
Hey! That’s my name! Get out of the way!
I lash out ferociously, but for some reason, it doesn’t work this time. Just moments ago, the maids were crying weakly, but now their eyes are blazing with terrifying intensity. As they hurriedly strip the sheets and scrub the floor, I desperately hiss and yowl among them. But this time, no one is afraid of me at all.
What is wrong with these people? This is scary.
I dodge the brooms and mops flying around like crazy and scurry into the corner of the room, curling up tight. If I stay out there, I’ll get swept up by a broom or wiped away by a mop.
The huge K stamped across the white marble floor fades away. They scrub and scrub and scrub and scrub, but when it still won’t come off, they pour a harsh-smelling liquid and rub at it like mad. Unable to withstand the humans’ terrifying obsession, my paw-print artwork slowly disappears. The sheets are stripped away and vanish, and the ink puddles are cleaned up. I watch the scene unfold with a devastated heart.
You’re all terrible. I’m never playing with you again. Hmph.
