Hi. It’s me. **Marilyn.**
Just Released: Diary of a Mad Cat
RAPS has agreed to release messages from a young feline who is currently being fostered in the RAPS fostering network. She has demanded the public be made aware of the conditions to which she is being subjected.
The following messages are from Marilyn Monhiss, a recently arrived resident of the Sanctuary. They were first posted to social media but the demands for additional distribution continued.
These statements do not reflect the opinions of the Regional Animal Protection Society, its directors, employees or volunteers.
*
A particular day
Hi. I’m Marilyn. I’m 10 weeks old and I don’t like you.
Don’t look at me. Don’t talk to me. And definitely don’t try to pet me.
(Unless you have Churu cat treats. Then… maybe.)
I didn’t ask to be rescued. I was perfectly happy being a tiny menace in the wild.
But now I live in a house with a “foster human” who keeps trying to win me over with kindness.
Rude.
Anyway, here’s a video of me swatting her. Enjoy.
*
A different day.
Hi. Marilyn speaking. Again. Unfortunately.
Last night, my foster mum brushed me.
I sat there. I *tolerated* it.
I even purred a little. Maybe leaned in once.
…And okay, yes I drooled.
Not a lot!! Just a respectable amount of betrayal juice.
It was a moment of weakness. A lapse in judgment.
Don’t read into it.
Then they had the *nerve* to give me a stuffy who tried to kiss me??
I shut that down immediately with a solid SMACK and a classic hiss.
Boundaries must be enforced even when you’re emotionally compromised by soft bristles and kindness.
I’m still feral. I’m still feared.
And that drool? Never happened.
*
All the days blend into one. This seems to be another one.
Hi. It’s me. **Marilyn.**
Welcome back to: **“I Didn’t Ask For This: The Feral Saga.”**
Let’s talk about today.
My foster? Left me.
Again. No explanation. No apology. Just *gone*.
Hours later, they returned reeking of betrayal and… dumpster kittens.
Apparently they trapped *two more* feral babies from some debris heap. *Tragic*, I guess.
Don’t worry they’re not staying.
They’re at the Shelter now, headed to another foster.
But that’s not the point.
The **point** is: my foster smelled like other kittens.
Touched other kittens.
Probably gave *them* Churu.
Meanwhile, I’m still here—sitting in my cage like a forgotten Victorian orphan—surrounded by the **three** freeloaders who showed up on Sunday.
Blinking. Eating. Audibly existing.
I hissed. I swatted. I may have sighed dramatically.
And you know what? I regret nothing.
Because loyalty matters. And so does personal space.
Anyway.
If anyone needs me, I’ll be sulking professionally under my blanket.
*Do not disturb unless you have snacks and an apology.*
*Pictured: The three newcomers who invaded my territory last Sunday.*
*
Some other day.
**Hi. It’s me. Marilyn. Victim of yet another disturbance.**
Today, my foster mum **changed my bedding.**
Tore away my beloved, crusty comfort nest and replaced it with… a *clean* blanket.
No warning. No apology. Just freshness and fabric softener. Disgusting.
And as if that violation of trust wasn’t enough **they picked me up** like I was some common lap cat.
Naturally, I hissed. Swatted. Retreated.
They petted me anyway. Again.
Honestly, the nerve.
I am *this close* to filing a formal complaint with the Ministry of Feral Affairs.
*
Day? Who knows. Who cares?
Hi. It’s me. **Marilyn.**
And I regret to inform you that I’ve been **prescribed pills.**
Yes. **PILLS.**
Like I’m just going to *open wide* and say “ahh.”
Like I’m *cooperative.*
Like I don’t have teeth and **personal boundaries.**
It all started when Foster Mum freaked out over a little cough. And a tiny gurgle.
(Okay fine, I sounded like a haunted kettle. But STILL.)
So I was stuffed into the carrier like a leftover lunch, dragged to the vet, and poked by strangers.
Diagnosis? “Let’s give her antibiotics.”
Prescription? **Pill form.**
I would just like to say one thing:
**Good luck to Foster Mum.**
She now gets to attempt *daily* pill administration… to a **feral drama gremlin** with **opinions** and **claws.**
She’s Googling things like “how to disguise a pill in wet food” and “how to keep your dignity after being slapped by a cat.”
Meanwhile, I’ll be spitting that pill out like I’m launching a missile.
From across the room.
With eye contact.
So yeah.
Pray for her.
Bring Churu.
And maybe bubble wrap.
*
What fresh hell will this day bring?
Hi. It’s me. **Marilyn.**
And I’m here to report a **crime.**
A *snack-based betrayal* in **two separate doses.**
Apparently, I’ve been prescribed **half a pill.**
**Twice a day.**
That’s right this isn’t even a “just get it over with” situation.
This is a *morning and evening betrayal package*.
A **slow burn of disrespect**.
Foster Mum thought she was clever.
She came in all casual—“Hi sweet girl!” offering a soft little treat with a suspicious dab of Churu.
Naturally, I sniffed it. Licked it. Began to indulge.
And then: **BOOM. PILLED.**
Mid-snack. Mid-trust. Mid-character arc.
I froze.
Locked eyes with her like I was filming the season finale of my villain origin story.
Then yes I swallowed.
Because I’m **elegant**, even in betrayal.
Did I accept the rest of the Churu?
Obviously.
I’m not a fool. I’m just **deeply offended.**
Let it be known:
Foster Mum is now on thin ice.
I will be inspecting every future snack like it owes me rent and a written apology.
And guess what?
We get to do it all again tonight.
Pray for her.
Send backup.
And maybe more Churu—*for me, not her.
*
Oh bloody hell. Another day in the hole.
Hi. It’s me. **Marilyn.**
And today… I looked at my paw.
Claws fully extended.
Perfectly sharpened.
Glistening in the light like tiny weapons of justice.
I didn’t hiss.
I didn’t swat (yet).
I simply *observed*… the elegance. The danger. The raw, untamed **feral energy** in my tiny murder mittens.
Foster Mum says I was just “admiring my nails.”
Incorrect.
I was **contemplating vengeance.**
For the pill attempts.
For the forehead kisses.
For the stuffed bear.
For *calling me Marion.*
Anyway.
She looked nervous after taking this picture.
Good.
She should be.
Bring Churu.
But approach *carefully.*
*
Yet another day.
Hi. It’s me. **Marilyn.**
And tonight… Foster Mum truly outdid herself in the worst possible way.
She dared… **DARED**… to serve my dinner on a *clear glass plate.*
A *plain* plate.
Transparent. Cold. Utterly lacking in romance, drama, or pink floral flair.
Sweetie, do I look like a cat who eats off something you’d put under a scented candle?
I’m a **feral icon.** A connoisseur.
My food belongs on a **vintage rose china plate**, delicately placed atop a velvet placemat — not in something that screams “leftovers.”
Naturally, I took one sniff.
And I declined.
Politely? No. With full diva glare.
Meanwhile:
* **Uncle Tundra?** Watching me with quiet resignation, like, “Here she goes again…”
* **Nutmeg?** Still loafed in the cat tree, refusing to get involved.
* The **four new kittens**? Peering out from their cage, jaws on the floor.
Welcome to the masterclass, children: *Lesson one demand standards.*
Foster Mum is now muttering about “spoiled” and “fussy.”
Spoiled? *Darling*, I was *born* to have taste.
Fix it.
Preferably with Churu.
And yes on the **pink rose plate.**
*
Will these days never end?
Hi. It’s me. **Marilyn.**
And I have an *important* question:
**Are you… getting tired of my updates?**
I mean, really how could you?
Daily tales of betrayal, blanket forts, pill-based injustice, dinner plate scandals, and questionable housemates named Tundra, Nutmeg, plus the new kitten choir?
This is **premium content.**
But maybe you’re over it?
Maybe you’ve had enough of my hissy fits, my paws of doom, my reluctant snuggles, and the occasional drool when I *accidentally* enjoy affection?
Should I scale back?
Disappear behind my blanket fort and emerge only once a month in a swirl of Churu crumbs and cattitude?
Or do you still want *every* dramatic moment?
Every stolen pink toy?
Every scandalous forehead kiss?
Every time Foster Mum dares to serve my food on the *wrong* plate?
**Let me know.**
Drop a comment. Smash that like. Make some noise so Foster Mum knows the world *demands* more Marilyn content.
Because honestly?
If you don’t want more… too bad.
You’re stuck with me anyway.
*
Not another day.
Hi. It’s me. **Marilyn.**
We need to talk.
The other night, I bravely shared my suffering: *Served dinner on a clear glass plate instead of my rightful pink rose dish.*
A tragedy of elegance, a crime against aesthetics and frankly, an attack on my brand.
And what did I get?
Instagram?
Absolute silence. Not a meow. Not a hiss. Not even a single “Poor Marilyn!”
Facebook?
A measly **three** comments.
Three humans had the courage to stand beside their queen.
Where was the outrage? The candlelight vigil? The viral hashtag campaign?
**Have we learned nothing from my past updates?!**
Look, I know you love me (some of you even suggested merch “Hi, it’s Marilyn” shirts? Approved).
But diva life is about *drama*, *support*, and *loud public sympathy*.
I’m not just doing this for me I’m doing it for *the narrative*.
So next time?
Show up. Comment. Like. Overreact on my behalf.
Foster Mum might be the one running this show, but *I’m the content*.
Consider this your warning.
Bring Churu. And better engagement.
*
This cannot be happening.
Hi. It’s me. **Marilyn.**
And today… I’m here to spill the family tea:
I have a sister.
Her name? **Lucille.**
Lucille is currently living at the adoption center because, well… she’s what Foster Mum politely calls *“a bit more of a project.”*
Translation:
Ears permanently in airplane mode
Swats like she means it
Bites just a *little* harder than I do (I bite gently; she… adds spice)
Foster Mum was petting her today Lucille let it happen (for a moment)… then *smacked* her hand when she was done. Classic.
She’s semi-feral, dramatic, and not exactly a cuddle bug *yet* but underneath? A little soul who just needs patience, quiet, and someone brave enough to say:
*“I’ll take her home and try.”*
So tell me, dear followers:
**Who among you is bold enough, patient enough, and just a bit unhinged enough… to foster my spicy sister Lucille?**
You’d get bragging rights, the occasional love nip, and front row seats to the slow blooming of trust.
Sounds terrifying? Good.
Sounds rewarding? Even better.
*
Oh yay. Another day.
Hi. It’s me. **Marilyn.**
So you remember that soft little hidey house Gracelyn *so kindly* gave me?
Yeah. About that.
I took one look and decided: *Cute.* But not quite **Queen Marilyn** level.
So I did what any visionary diva would do:
I *sat* on it.
Repeatedly.
With purpose.
Now? It’s no longer a “hidey house.”
It’s a **crushed velvet-inspired, slightly lopsided, fully custom Royal Throne of Hiss™.**
Perfect for:
Glaring down at foster mum.
Smacking the air dramatically.
Judging every kitten within a 10-foot radius.
And of course, hissing at Ken every single morning because royalty must keep up appearances.
Honestly? Iconic.
Gracelyn, you planted the seed. I… *redecorated* it with my butt.
So yes, peasants. Step aside.
The throne is ready.
Bring Churu. Compliment the new seating arrangement.
And someone warn Ken Friesen it’s almost hiss o’clock.
*
Enough. Release me.
Hi. It’s me. **Marilyn.**
And gather ‘round, because you will NOT believe today’s absurdity:
My sister **Lucille** yes, the *bitey one with the permanent “don’t touch me” face* has found herself a **foster home.**
I know.
I had to flick my ear twice just to be sure I heard that right.
Some brave soul out there looked at Lucille’s “I’ll chew your hand off” vibe and said:
*“Yes please! Sign me up!”*
To which I say:
**Best of luck, you absolute maniac.**
May your sleeves be thick, your Churu supply never run out, and your medical insurance be excellent.
Meanwhile, I remain in my plush kingdom, paws perfectly tucked, judging EVERYTHING.
Lucille? Off to a fresh home to rebrand “aggressive affection” as “quirky charm.”
Do I feel abandoned? No.
Do I approve? Hah.
Am I rolling my eyes so hard I might sprain something? Absolutely.
But fine, go on, Lucille make your dramatic exit.
Leave me here to run the royal court solo.
Just don’t come crying back when you get called “spicy.”
That’s *my* brand.
*
Another day from hell.
Hi. It’s me. **Marilyn.**
And yes this morning I *personally* attempted to send my stuffed bear for a *little swim.*
Why? Because he **looked at me funny.**
Don’t question the queen’s methods.
Mid-dunk, Foster Mum shows up acting like she’s the fun police.
“Oh Marilyn, now he’ll have to go in the laundry!”
Laundry? *LAUNDRY??*
I don’t remember asking her opinion.
So naturally, when she dared to pick up my wet, half-drowned bear and tried to carry him off to the laundry hamper…
I smacked her.
I smacked her again.
Then I *kept smacking*—rapid-fire paw of judgment.
And hissed for emphasis.
Don’t interrupt the execution of justice, *Karen.*
That bear had it coming.
And let’s be clear:
I’ll do it again.
Tomorrow.
Next week.
Forever, if I feel like it.
My kingdom.
My soggy victim.
My rules.
And if Foster Mum keeps backtalking?
She can join the bear in the water dish.
Now bring Churu.
And bow before your soggy-pawed queen.
*
Not this again.
Hi. It’s me. **Marilyn.**
So you remember my *“sister”* Lucille?
Turns out… plot twist worthy of daytime TV: **Lucille is actually my brother.**
Yes. Brother.
Apparently, the humans *finally* got brave (or foolish) enough to check properly between the claws and screaming.
So now they’re all,
> “Oh no, Marilyn, we need to change the name!”
> *Excuse me?* This is why you double-check your spicy gremlins *before* making an Instagram graphic, darling.
Anyway, your royal highness graciously allows the peasants (that’s you) to weigh in:
**Lucifer** for the full demon mode, obviously.
**Laurence** posh, distant, will absolutely hiss in French.
**Lionel** soft on the outside, feral on the inside, still screams at midnight.
Drop your votes below.
Because chaos needs a brand, and my spicy brother needs a new tag.
Meanwhile, “Lucille” (whoever he thinks he is today) spent all night running Zoomies ‘round the cage from midnight to 5 AM.
Because *even an identity crisis won’t stop the Feral Olympics.*
*
Worst day yet.
Hi. it’s me. Marilyn.
And buckle up, peasants, because Foster Mum has *truly* outdone herself this time.
On **Sunday**, she decided, “Hmm… what does this royal suite need?”
**FIVE. MORE. KITTENS.**
Not in another wing of the estate.
Not in a peasant guest house.
Nope — **jammed RIGHT NEXT TO MY PALACE.**
And do they quietly appreciate this upgrade?
No.
**They. Stink.**
Like stress sweat, half-digested kibble, and *audacity*.
**AND THEN — THEY ESCAPED.**
On Night One!
At *midnight,* mind you — just as I was drifting into my *fifth* beauty nap.
Foster Mum had to stomp in wearing pajamas, chasing squealing furballs like it was some feral slapstick comedy.
The nerve!
**My royal slumber?**
Shattered.
My patience?
Extinct.
Their cage now looks like the aftermath of a toddler riot: spilled food, toys, probably a few lost souls trapped under the bedding.
Meanwhile, I’m trying to preserve what’s left of my mystique, glaring so hard my whiskers nearly curled.
And Foster Mum dares to whisper,
“Be nice, Marilyn.”
**Nice?**
After midnight kitten rodeos and eau de chaos wafting into my suite?
Absolutely not, darling.
I’m feral, not Mother Teresa.
Anyway, send Churu.
Send industrial-strength air freshener.
And maybe send a new Foster Mum who knows the meaning of *privacy.
*
Days are nights and nights are days.
Peasants,
We need to talk.
There is **mayhem** in the land of fosterlings. Absolute **mayhem**.
Foster kittens have taken to **climbing inside refrigerators**, acting like every shelf is an all-you-can-eat buffet. Others are **yowling like banshees** in their cages the moment the sun even *thinks* about setting. And don’t get me started on the **dish-slapping chaos** at dinnertime. It’s uncouth. It’s uncivilized. It’s… *embarrassing*.
As the reigning monarch of this sanctuary, I, **Marilyn Monhiss**, have upheld the standard of **feral elegance**. I may hiss, I may spit, I may launch myself at unsuspecting staff — but I **do not** screech for kibble like a peasant with no pride.
So here’s the deal:
The underlings are hungry.
They eat. A **lot**.
And if they don’t get food, I have to *listen* to it.
I will not be subject to this racket.
Therefore, I graciously request — nay, **command** — that food be sent. Dry food. Wet food. Formula. Fancy snacks. **Churu tributes**. All shall be delivered…
**In my name.**
Because only *I* can restore order.
Send your offerings to:
**RAPS Cat Sanctuary & Adoption Center**
Memo: *In Honour of Queen Marilyn, Guardian of Sass*
Now go. Feed the gremlins. Do not disappoint me.
**Her Ferocity, Marilyn Monhiss**
Feral. Fabulous. Fully Over It.
*
Make it stop.
That brings us to a staggering **37 kittens** rescued from one gloriously chaotic epicenter.
Thirty‑seven.
Thirty‑seven reasons I’ve barricaded myself behind a fortress of blankets and eyebrow-raising.
These pint‑sized tyrants:
- **Screech** at all hours like they own the place.
- **Bounce** off every surface like caffeinated popcorn.
- **Flop** dramatically after one kibble, then demand applause.
And who’s tasked with maintaining even a shred of dignity here?
**Me.**
Your feral queen cast into a kitten-strewn reality show.
And when the chaos gets too much?
**Ken** will be on the receiving end of *The Hiss™.*
Lunges may be involved. Blanket shields *will* be required.
So enjoy the pandemonium, peasants. I’m off to rehearse my next hiss for maximum dramatic effects.
*
Finally. Some good news.
Hi. It’s me. **Marilyn.**
And gather ‘round, peasants, because the universe *finally* remembered whose kingdom this is.
The five chaotic, loud, midnight-escaping, stink monsters?
**They’re GONE.**
Yes—banished to another foster home where they can shriek, sneeze, and do unspeakable things to their food bowls *far* away from *my* royal suite.
Did they leave gracefully?
Absolutely not.
They left behind a cage that looks like a raccoon frat party exploded—wet food crust, litter kicked everywhere, and an *odor so tragic it should be illegal*.
To commemorate the moment, I perched like the queen I am on the cat tree *Hemlock*, the other foster, hanging off the side looking like my slightly baffled royal assistant right in front of their disaster zone of a cage.
And yes, I watched them go with a level of smug satisfaction only a true diva can deliver.
Peace, quiet, and dignity have *finally* returned to *my* kingdom.
Now, bring Churu.
And someone tell Foster Mum she’s gonna need a hazmat suit for that cage.
Thank you Lisa Brill-Friesen.
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