It is rather ridiculous that I do not know when I was born, as I was born on the prison guard's screened in front patio. Her stray cat had a litter of five, within which I found myself. It was an unfortunate incident; she had been about to get the stray cat, my mother, a cat she named Hiromi, spayed, but Hiromi went into heat and was subsequently repeatedly and brutally raped by myriad tom cats.
Here I am in a pile with my siblings. There were five of us born that day; two girls and three boys. The girls were all white, and the three boys were an orange cat, a backwards me, that is, a black cat with white marks, and me. I am toward the back there. I can nearly make myself out in this photograph.
It was quite a comfortable pile of bodies and limbs and purring, however. I truly enjoyed being pressed against my family. I do not believe I have felt such an intense warmth since then.
And in this picture I am being held by the prison guard's husband (although he was not her husband at that time). I cannot imagine allowing myself to be held in this manner now. It would fill me with a pulsing rage and my only alternative would be to lash out, hissing, biting.
I was gentler as a kitten, I suppose. Happier.
And this picture provides further evidence of that ease, that happiness. Here I lie with my cretinous roommate, Fremlin. I would never suffer this to happen now. Ever.
Maybe I was sweeter in kittenhood because I had not yet gone through the suffering that would come to define me. I had not yet met the horrible dog that I had to guard against, the horrible dog several years ago who bit my tail. I had not yet realized that for every moment of love and happiness, we needs must experience agony and torment tenfold.
Regardless. Why does the prison guard forget my birthday? I will forgive her the day, but this woman does not remember the year.
I suppose I will just have to sing to myself. By myself.
Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday, dear Luco. Happy birthday to me.