Rescue

Name: Only the Wise
Prompt: You are a Siamese named Miniver living in a genteel household of intellectuals.  Your household is the epitome of elegance, fine breeding and superlative taste.  The only discordant note -- at least, as far as you are concerned -- is Zeus, that lower-class mutt who rampages through the house, causing havoc wherever he goes.  You cannot understand how your humans could suffer such an uncharacteristic lapse in good taste.

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"He's a rescue," the humans said. "We think he was abused."

Everyone thinks their rescue animal has been abused. If — perish the thought — Miniver herself had been found wandering the streets, they would've assumed she had been beaten by children, or run over by a car, rather than spending her days eating wild-caught Alaskan salmon from the fine china. That was the way of humans. They believed themselves to be saints in a world full of marauding demons. Messiah complexes, all of them. Not unlike cats in that aspect, actually.

Miniver licked her paws to settle her nerves. It usually worked, for a little while. Then Zeus would come galumphing around the corner or diving through the kitchen chairs, and the mere shock would send her pristine fur into a tizzy all over again. She spent an obscene amount of time bathing these days. Her poor nerves just couldn’t take it.

"We think he has some Pharaoh Hound in him, or maybe some Bernese Mountain Dog. The vet said he might be part Great Dane, even. A noble breed, of course. Whatever he is, I’m sure it’s a noble breed. Our Zeus is such a stately dog. Even his name — after the god of thunder, you know."

Miniver knew. The thundering sound of his bark. The thundering sound of his feet. The thundering sound of his gas after someone fed him under the table. Miniver knew it all too well. Her pedigree was studded with champions. She could have been one herself, if the show circuit weren't so . . . common. The breeder had said so. “The best kitten this cattery has ever produced, languishing in a pet home,” the breeder had mourned, but Miniver didn't cared. “Languishing” was exactly the sort of life she was cut out for.

If she had known this would be her treatment at home, she would have suffered the show circuit. Even the assault strange hands roaming across her smooth, sinuous body would have been less of an insult than living with this classless beast.

"But it's so strange," the woman said slowly to her dinner companion. "Our dear Miniver has been acting odd since Zeus came home. We think she might be sick. We think she might be allergic to dogs. Francine, darling, do you know anyone who might want a well-bred Siamese? We just couldn't give up Zeus again.  He was abused; he's a rescue. I'm sure you understand."