Walter the cat thought he had a good thing going. He was a floofy, majestic, ginger monarch of the living room, ruling with a firm but fair paw. His days were spent napping in sunbeams, demanding treats with a single, imperious glance, and generally being the most handsome feline in the known universe. He was the perfect example of a cat who had it all.
Or so he thought.
One day, his owner, a mere human, appeared holding a small device. “Walter,” she said, a strange twinkle in her eye, “I found some pictures of you as a baby. Do you want to see?”
Walter gave a look that clearly communicated, “I guess.” The very idea was preposterous. He was born fully-formed, a lion-hearted warrior of floof. He had no “baby” stage. This was some sort of human trick.
But then, the owner started scrolling through the photos. Each one revealed a tiny, almost impossibly cute creature that looked suspiciously like a miniature version of him. There was the tiny, sleeping form, a little ball of ginger fur and pink toe beans. Then came the image of the wide-eyed kitten, sitting on a pile of towels, looking both confused and utterly adorable.
With each picture, Walter’s majestic composure began to crumble. A photo of him as a tiny kitten with big, innocent eyes brought forth a gasp. Another, of him mid-yawn, revealing a ridiculously small and pink mouth, made him recoil. The final image of the tiny, scared kitten on the couch was too much.
This was not the narrative Walter had crafted for himself. He was not a tiny, vulnerable creature. He was a great wizard of floof, a majestic beast of legend. The owner, however, had documentary proof to the contrary. The pictures were undeniable. Walter’s past had come back to haunt him, and it was devastatingly, adorably, embarrassing.