That strikingly attractive creature is me, Koniferous Clark, known as Kona to humans. I might resemble an ordinary tortoiseshell house cat, but I’m actually a member of the species Impus Demonicus. I worship the mischievous and merciless Goddess Mawroo.

I have two Familiars who do my bidding. I am fond of them, as long as they stay in line, though I often dream of how wonderful their livers must taste. I refer to my male Familiar simply as “the Oaf”, though his given name is Carlyle Clark. The Oaf and his mate make offerings to me in the form of fragrant fish-meat and hard fish pellets they retrieve from a bag. It’s not as good as antelope heart, rat blood, or rabbit brain, which I was born tasting, but it is acceptable fare.

There is another cat living here, that obese orange and white thing. It pays no mind to spiritual matters, caring only for hard fish pellets and long naps. I want to kill it, but Mawroo has forbidden this for she is partial to all felines, whether they worship her or not.

My voice is beautiful when I call Mawroo’s name. It is a bit baritone, a low-pitched plaintive wail. “Mawroo? Mawroo!” I say, and the Goddess answers in a voice only Demon Imps such as I can hear. The Familiars seem to enjoy this worship. They draw their lips back, show their teeth, and stroke my silken coat, saying “shhhh, shhhh, goooood kitteeeeee”.

I position myself each night by the moving glass wall in the Familiar’s place of food and plead to Mawroo. I long to roam the sacred hunting grounds in the wetlands behind this dwelling. The Familiars don’t understand. They never open the wall to let me out, well . . . almost never. Once the Goddess Mawroo presented an opportunity. She compelled the Oaf to leave the glass wall open. I was gone for three days. I brought back a gift of prey, a valiant mouse killed by my own two paws. The Oaf’s mate made a screeching noise, and the Oaf put the offering in that sweet-smelling can filled with something they call “garbage”. I will plunder that can, once I figure out how to open it, and offer its contents to Mawroo.

Mawroo has rules, which I follow relentlessly. For example, if an unattended cup filled with liquid is NOT knocked over, this is blasphemy. All bottle caps and other small objects must be batted into cracks and crevasses or beneath the large white box where the Familiars place open containers of fish-meat. Mawroo doesn’t care where I bat these offending objects as long as they are rendered irretrievable.