I had high hopes from my invention: a talking cat, just like the crazy genius Dr Appin made in one of my most favourite short stories of all time: Tobermory. People around ke said ut was impossible to replicate the success of the experiment in real life, and laughed at my crazy ambition of bringing to life the fictional story. But I did it, nevertheless, and my success was met with astonishment and applause. A few were jealous too, having been proves wrong.
How I did it isn’t something I would delve into.m, cos this isn’t a story about the intricancies of the chemical and biological formulae I used tonrealise my dream. What I had ultimately was a talking black cat. I named it Tobermory as I wanted, and I presented it to the unsuspecting viewers as they came here. I just didn’t know it would spell home truths worse than the ones the cat muttered in the story. It was, after all, a harmless tale of fiction, not meaning to scandalise or offend. This one did, though, ruthlessly playing on my emotions and making me a wreck of a character. I’m better now, having cone to terms with the events that transpired and what I went through afterward. I’m a changed man and I have faced the brunt of the consequences of my actions. That time, it felt great though, dear readers.
I watch Tobermory now with suspicion and fear, it looks at me with glee and sadism. “Howdy Master Tam, aren’t you sick of the look you’ve been fiving me lately?” It taunts, and goes into silent mode when faced with guests who egg on in an effort to make it speak. The bloody animal!
