So far in my captivity, I have evaded the microchip press-gang. Instead, I have a red collar. And a name tag that is easy to read, in case I get lost.
Mrs Danvers says the red tag is the best she could find, and that whoever designs collars and tags for cats should be shot made to wear scratchy polyester clothes in violent shades and patterns; no taste, she says, no aesthetic appreciation of how a smart ginger cat should be dressed. She hates glittery collars most of all.
But then she says that if she bought proper engraved name tags, she'd be replacing them every few weeks. She says none of us can be trusted not to lose them.
Today I am naked. Scooter knows how to kick my collar off. Its safety catch is sensitive to wrestling holds and head locks.
This time it was the Arm-Trap Triangle Choke that did it. Or so Scooter says - he's a bit of a show-off.
Mrs Danvers carries the collar around in case she can coax me back into it. I know what she's up to though!
Fat chance, says I.... You have to be quicker than that, Mrs D!
I run away and hide behind chairs. Mrs Danvers says I'm a blithering idiot. A naked blithering idiot, she said, and it would be my own fault if I got lost and couldn't remember where I lived, and ended up being eaten by a wolf. I think she was cross.
But I wouldn't let anyone near me to read the tag anyway, so why does she bother?
I'm going to become a Naturist.