Same, same but not much different

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, albeit in Britain, not France, when I heard that my beloved aunt had left her estate to her pampered feline, Prince. One in a long line of indulged cats that have sat mewling at the feet of our royal line, Prince had all but squandered my aunt's fortune with his profligate ways by the time she shuffled off this mortal coil.

While the estate's ragged bestiary was forced to live in cramped outdoor quarters, Prince was slavishly tended to indoors by a sycophantic bulldog, Winston, and scores of human servants, who dropped everything at the tinkling of his bell.

Determined to right this wrong, I, Lord Dargis — my aunt's only human heir and a gentleman unfairly branded “nefarious” by shadowy agents — borrowed a chapter from the Book of Moses. Taking enormous care, I set the animal afloat on the Thames in a sturdy picnic basket, knowing that providence looks after all creatures great and small.

Alas, through a series of inexplicable events, an obese American hairball named Garfield wrecked my campaign. Accompanied by a pallid human, Jon, and a charming canine named Odie, this monstrous orange tabby, after running amok in the castle, helped engineer the return of his look-alike.

And so, once again, the animals of the estate have been forced into servitude by this wretched beast. The noble horse is forced to bow to Prince on what looks to be painful bended knee, while the geese are forced to trumpet the cat's arrival as if announcing the entrance of the Queen herself. The indignities are as enormous as the food bills, the American cat having only encouraged Prince in his native gluttony.

As for me, after attempting my humble palace coup, I was hauled off by the authorities, my bespoke clothes and dignity in tatters. But I know all is not lost. To borrow and slightly emend the words of Shakespeare: That cat will mew, but this dog will have the day.