A Day in the Life of Rajah: The Burden of Being Grand Duchess

A Day in the Life of Rajah: The Burden of Being Grand Duchess

By W.J. Rabideau

By Her Royal Highness, Princess Rajah, First of Her Name, Duchess of the Staircase, and Supreme Ruler of the Two-Story Kingdom

Being royal is exhausting. Particularly when you’re responsible for the emotional well-being of three hopelessly dependent humans.

I am Rajah, a 14-year-old domestic blue shorthair of exquisite beauty and questionable ancestry. My pedigree is technically unknown, but I find discussing one’s bloodline terribly gauche. Clearly, I’m descended from greatness.

I rule a magnificent two-story estate alongside my three devoted subjects: Erin, my beloved lady-in-waiting; Justin, her rather tolerable gentleman companion (whom I prefer naptime on—shh don’t tell Erin); and Jane, the household’s elder matriarch who is kind enough to escort me to the outdoors for bird watching. They’re utterly useless without me. Fortunately, I adore them.

My mornings begin with an elaborate grooming ritual. One cannot receive royal visitors looking like a disheveled street urchin. I bathe approximately 47 times daily, pausing only to demand affection. And I demand quite a lot.

I am an extraordinarily loving princess. I greet my subjects enthusiastically, rub against their legs, curl into their laps, and insist upon vigorous petting. Personal space is a ridiculous concept invented by people who have never experienced the privilege of loving me. Should a human cease stroking me prematurely, I gently remind them of their contractual obligations with a headbutt. Or seventeen.

Breakfast is a delicate affair. My sensitive stomach requires a specially curated diet, although I much prefer treats, which I inhale like a Victorian orphan encountering his first Christmas dinner. Occasionally, I vomit them straight back up. The humans call this concerning. I call it sharing.

After breakfast, I inspect my outdoor kingdom to practice my hunting skills (of which there are plenty!) I adore fresh air, provided the weather is civilized. Sunshine? Splendid. Rain? Absolutely not. Cold? What am I, a bloody penguin? Open the door immediately!

Afternoons are reserved for cuddling, receiving compliments, and playing fetch. Yes, fetch. I was raised among a number of dogs and acquired their recreational habits without inheriting their embarrassing lack of self-respect, or their dreaded smells.

I also possess the remarkable ability to knock on doors and open them myself. Privacy is a privilege my subjects have not earned. If Erin shuts a door between us, I shall personally rectify this appalling abandonment.

I love my humans fiercely. I follow them from room to room, supervise their activities, and graciously offer my warm, velvety body as emotional support. Gods know they need it. They would not survive without me. Really, I am doing them a favor. Their laps are my throne, their hands my personal massage equipment, and their happiness my responsibility. Naturally, I expect absolute devotion in return.

There is, however, one task beneath my station: burying my own excrement. I use the litter box impeccably, but covering the evidence? Darling, I’m a princess, not a sanitation worker. That’s what the staff are for.

By nightfall, I settle in for luxurious cuddles, purring like a tiny, malfunctioning motorcycle.

Then, at approximately 2:47 a.m., duty calls. I seize my toy mouse and thunder up and down the staircase, screaming like a Victorian widow discovering her husband left everything to his mistress. The kingdom must know I’ve made a kill. Why these pesky humans are not capable of such feats will never cease to amaze me, so naturally I share in my kills. Eventually, I return to bed, snuggle against my favorite humans, and purr myself to sleep.

Because beneath my aristocratic superiority, demanding temperament, and occasional gastrointestinal terrorism, I possess an enormous heart. I love my humans more than anything. Except perhaps treats. Now cuddle me, you magnificent, incompetent bastards.

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