Petrestroika Chapter 1

Just over a week ago, I teased that I was working on something…a little different. A step away from my usual pessimistic visions of futures entangled with technology.

Today, I present the opening chapter of Petrestroika. It is a feline comedy told from the perspective of Dmitri Alexandrovich Medvedev, a Siberian Forest cat who believes he is descended from Russian nobility. His orderly life is upended by the arrival of Grace Beaulieu, a Maine Coon with the charm of a Southern diplomat and the subtlety of a wrecking ball. The two main characters are based on two of my four cats.

Let the cold war of the carpets begin.

Dmitri Alexandrovich Medvedev observed the morning's irregularities with the narrowed green eyes of a deposed tsar. The humans, his supposed caretakers, were bustling about with the frantic, pointless energy of squirrels before a snowstorm. They exchanged those secretive smiles that, in his experience, invariably preceded a catastrophic breach in protocol.

"Mr Fluffy," cooed the youngest one, her ridiculous pink pyjamas an assault on the morning's dignity. "We've got a surprise for you later!"

Dmitri maintained his aristocratic pose, tail wrapped neatly around his paws. Surprise. Kak interesno. How interesting. In his nine lives of experience, human surprises ranked somewhere between an undignified costume and a catastrophic trip in the car.

"Don't look so worried, Fluffykins," the father-human said, rushing past with his briefcase and, most alarmingly, leaving without his customary coffee. The man never left without coffee. It was a violation of protocol. "You'll love it!"

I shall be the judge of what I love, thank you very much. Dmitri remained motionless until all three humans had departed, a full forty-seven minutes before their standard exit time. The sound of the door clicking shut echoed with finality through the suddenly empty dacha.

Something was very wrong indeed.

He rose, stretched with the deliberate grace of his Siberian Forest Cat lineage, and began his inspection patrol. First, the food bowls: filled to the regulation level. Water: fresh. Litter tray: immaculate. This contradicted the usual pattern of a hasty departure, where at least one essential task was inevitably forgotten. This was planned. Coordinated.

He padded into the living room, his whiskers twitching. The cushions had been straightened. The morning's usual detritus cleared away. They had cleaned before leaving. Without his supervision. Highly suspicious. His gaze swept the room, cataloguing every misplaced object. He searched for the anomaly. And found it. Beneath the sofa, a corner of a shopping bag. Hurriedly shoved, yet not entirely concealed from his superior senses. A fatal error on their part.

He extended a single, white-gloved paw and hooked the bag, dragging it into the light. He recoiled at the image on the packaging.

A cat carrier. New, improved, and allegedly "stress-free."

Bozhe moi! My God! His magnificent tail bristled to twice its usual size. The evidence was conclusive. This could mean only one thing: the veterinarian. The last time they'd sprung this "surprise," he'd been forced to endure the indignity of thermometers in unmentionable places and needles in his noble haunches.

Dmitri's normally meticulous mind, a fine-tuned instrument of household management, began to race. A strategy was required. A contingency plan worthy of General Kutuzov himself. The humans would return, armed with that plastic prison and their infuriatingly false cheer. But this time, the surprise would find him not only prepared, but strategically entrenched.

One hour and seventeen minutes later—Dmitri had counted every second with military precision from his tactical observation post atop the bookshelf—the front door crashed open. He flattened his ears, the outrage of their scheduling infractions compounded by their premature return.

"Mr Fluffy! We're home! Come see what we've brought!"

Dmitri remained motionless, a shadow amongst the hardbacks. Let them search. A small punishment for their conspiracy.

Heavy footfalls approached. A large cardboard box appeared in the doorway, perforated with holes and emitting suspicious rustling sounds. The tall human set it down with uncharacteristic gentleness. It was not the dreaded carrier. This was a different variable entirely.

"Mr Fluffy, we've brought you a friend!"

Friend? The absurdity. Dmitri required no companions. His ancestors had served tsars; they did not attend playdates.

The humans opened the box. A flap lifted. A pair of tufted ears emerged. Then, wide amber eyes. A nose. And then fur. A seemingly endless, unfurling torrent of brown tabby fur.

Bozhe moy.

The creature—undeniably feline but of a grotesque, transatlantic scale—bounded from the box with a shocking display of unrefined, colonial vigour. A Maine Coon. The basketball players of the cat world. All paws and no subtlety.

"This is Duchess!" the smallest human announced. "Isn't she beautiful?"

The intruder trilled, actually trilled, and stretched her substantial frame across his Persian rug.

"Howdy! You must be the top cat I've heard so much about!" The Maine Coon's internal voice was a symphony of folksy twang and guileless optimism. "Name's Grace Beaulieu. It's a real pleasure to make your acquaintance!"

Dmitri's fur bristled involuntarily. The humans cooed, misinterpreting his pure, undiluted horror as excitement.

"Look, they're already communicating!"

The Maine Coon rolled onto her back, paws splayed with undignified abandon. "These humans sure are sweet, aren't they? I can tell they love you tons."

Dmitri's tail twitched precisely thrice, a metronome of rising fury. "You have committed a serious border violation. This dacha falls under the protection of Dmitri Alexandrovich Medvedev, descendant of the Imperial Romanov cats."

Grace blinked slowly. "Wow, that's quite a mouthful! Mind if I call you Dmitri? Or Dimi? That's cute!"

Dmitri felt his noble whiskers quiver with indignation. This...this peasant...this colonist was addressing him with diminutives.

The humans watched, delighted at what they perceived as a budding friendship. Poor, simple creatures.

War has come to my doorstep, Dmitri thought grimly. And she wears a raccoon tail.