You were Phantom of the Opera cat, a half-masked face of darkness, pistachio eyes glittering through fur. You bounced towards me, ahead of your siblings, pale understudies to your glory.

You were mine.

You were Norma Desmond when you tugged out your post-surgery stitches and lay, bleeding into the mattress, disappearing into death. “Bring her to the surgery,” the vet said on the phone.  A perfectly timed collapse, panting open-mouthed, eyes glazed, and he abandoned a waiting room full of patients to rush to your side.

Like Mariah, you demanded to be fed now, velvet paw dabbing at my sleeping face. More insistent. More frequent. Until sharp nails were unsheathed.

You wailed like Whitney as you skittled across Paris, your voice drowning out the brutal traffic criss-crossing lanes around the Arc de Triomphe. Chanel. Dior. Your hunting ground.

It suited you, European life. You were Sally Bowles, dark fur tipped over that one eye, alluring the locals. The Yorkshire farmhouse where you began was never going to satisfy your ambition. You needed an international stage.

I watched you, that last night. You were Evita. Weak, limbs limp. Emerald fire blazed in your eyes.

The house lights dimmed.

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Denise Bayes’ writing has appeared in NZ Micro Madness, Oxford Flash, Free Flash Fiction, NFFD Anthology, 100 Word Story, Thin Skin, Temple in a City, Does it Have Pockets and Underbelly Press. Denise lives in Barcelona with her husband and a cavalier King Charles spaniel called Rory. @deniseb.bsky.social