The Dotterweich Christmas Letter for 2020, by Michael the Cat
By Michael Thomas Dotterweich
Readers of this epistolary series in the past have come to expect a forgettable dip into the jejune, the vapid, and the inane, along with some footnotes. As they appear rarely, these letters may occasion mild surprise, rather like a brush salesman knocking at the door every five years or so. But if you’re polite and welcome them in, the novelty will turn to tedium almost immediately, and you can only make it stop by purchasing a cheap brush or (in the case of the letters) burning them.
All that changes this year, for I have now assumed responsibility for the composition of the Dotterweich Christmas greeting.
Since my arrival in May, I’ve made extensive changes at Dotterton Abbey. And trust me, changes were in order: it’s been an uphill battle to turn this chaotic heap into a working home. I feel that this letter shows the successful completion of Phase One, and hope that future missives may reflect a much more felicitous domestic order.
I suppose a word of introduction is called for. I, Michael Thomas Dotterweich, am a cat. I’m the happy result of countless generations of tabby breeding, though alas (for reasons to which I will return) the last of my line. And I’m now the Lord of Dotterton Abbey, concerning which I now make report.
Dotterton Abbey before my arrival
Unimportant.
I take possession of Dotterton Abbey
Who can remember anything about the first two months of life? I can’t. What I do recall is the indignity of becoming lodged in the engine block of a truck, and a fine man having to disassemble things to extract me. I suppose I was more embarrassed than anything else; how had a fellow as lithe as I gotten stuck in there? But thanks to that gentleman, I was free, and like anyone with such noble blood needed only to find a patch of soil on which to build my realm. Despite being human, my rescuer seems to have intuited this, and seeing my strength of character and iron will placed me in a situation which would have cowed a lesser feline: Dotterton Abbey. I was presented, with inadequate but well-meaning ceremony, to the staff at the door. Remarkably, the housemaid recognized my name .“He’s Michael,” she said, and while I winced at the use of my Christian name by the staff, I was pleased to be known. One has to make allowances for the gaucheness of humans.
The inadequacies of Dotterton Abbey were evident immediately. There was no pavilion for me to perch upon, no playthings for my amusement, not even — I hesitate to say this, but want you to understand the full degradation of the place — a feline bathroom facility. Here was dilapidation that would require my full attention, but then perhaps it simply needed proper handling and direction. I decided to establish my rule, and see whether I could make a silk purse from this sow’s ear.
The jury is still out on that.
Notes on the staff
I do not wish to be unjust to the staff. They were clearly not well-trained, and most of them are simply unfit for service at the level I require. But they are my charges, and noblesse oblige dictates that I must make something of them. The youngest, a footman of sixteen, understands at least some of his duties. He will act as doorman when required, and occasionally plays for my amusement when I practice my sport inside. He also provides treats with regularity, and has occasionally borne me about on my bed, as close to a palanquin as I can expect here. On the other hand, where is his livery? He wears hoodies. Hoodies! Nor has he ever acted as herald for visitors or fetched me bonbons in the small hours of the night. I do feel that he has promise, though.
The housemaid, as indicated, did me the great service of recognizing my name. Beyond this, she seems happy for me to nap on her bed (strictly speaking it is my bed, but we’ll make allowances), and she makes soft mewling noises around me. It is worth mentioning that none of the staff can speak properly; they utter their human babble in a steady stream, as unintelligible as the barking of dogs. And they seem to miss the meaning of my words entirely; only if I speak very slowly and deliberately, with a hint of miming, can they understand me. The housemaid does not, it should be said, do much to suit my domestic tastes. I’d have a good deal more catnip about, and occasional rodents for sport, but such details escape her attention. But she has a good heart, and will learn.
Mine is the dander of delight, the scent of sophistication, the odor of the haute: yet this charming characteristic of mine seems to be a stumbling block for the housekeeper. It is difficult not to think of this as a character defect, but I believe the sneezing and sore throats to be beyond her control, poor woman. Beside that, she has proven to be by far the most adroit of the staff. Not only does she provide me with numerous dainties to eat, she brings me the most things from the store, and provides sport for me, particularly with balled-up paper on the stairs. Yes, this is something of an indignity, but it gives her pleasure, and I require exercise. The housekeeper also shows some feline traits of her own; occasionally she stretches in ways that only a cat can stretch, and often she “meditates,” which approximates the depth of feline thought. She has improved Dotterton Abbey since my arrival.
Last, and least, is the butler. Only the milk of felinekindness in my veins keeps me from casting him into the streets. His ineptitude is the stuff of legend: serving me dry kibble when it’s clearly time for the fish course, not allowing me sufficient time to sit in the doorway in order to decide whether to take a turn in the garden, not providing a morning cuddle of appropriate duration. His livery is occasionally better (indeed, occasionally I’m not embarrassed to be held by him when he’s wearing a tie), and his facial fur mimics my own lustrous coat. So it’s not all bad, I suppose.
BUT.
This man, supposedly my feudal liegeman, supposedly bound by something more sacred than contract, supposedly my man, transgressed so grievously that I can scarcely bring myself to relate the facts. He took me to the vet, formerly a place of spa luxuries like mani/pedi treatments, but now of horror. After being stabbed — stabbed! — I slept deeply and woke to find that — I blush to say it — I had been gelded. I can only assume that this was a mistake during some spa treatment; my man did display suitable chagrin after the fact. But the damage cannot be undone. Alas for my progeny; alas for a world deprived of them. You’ll ask why I didn’t dismiss the butler on the spot: I’m just too kind for my own good. I expect little from the butler, and receive little. As soon as I find a better butler, I will demote this one to dogsbody, a more appropriate role for him by far.
Christmas and the New Year
Dotterton Abbey was a flurry of activity as of late November. First came a largish meal, then lots of colored lights and baubles about the place. To be fair to the staff, they were all involved, and the result is striking. Strangely, they brought in a tree, which was disconcerting at first, but I’ve become accustomed to it now. They seem relieved that I take no particular interest in the hanging decorations on the tree; sometimes it’s as if they expect boorish behavior of a nobleman. They did present me with a gift for Christmas, a promising display of fealty. While a Veuve Clicquot ’64 or a Schaffhausen Portofino timepiece might have befitted my station better, the stuffed carrot toy with catnip has provided amusement. Another large meal occurred on Christmas Day, and that night brought a moment of sweet reconciliation with the butler. As he denuded the turkey carcass, he provided me with a tasty late supper and (I think) a tacit apology. For some reason, he thought it more dignified to pull meat from the bones himself, though I was quite prepared to sup directly from the bird. Still, it gave me hope that my relationship with him can improve after my unmanning.
And now we look to the new year, and I am pleased to pass the goodwill of all the Dotterton Abbey household to you and yours. I trust that you humans will find renewed hope and peace and joy, having (as I gather) endured a trying 2020. Eventually, we’d love to see you at the Abbey, once I get the staff in order. Give it a few years.
And please bring snacks.
May God bless each of you. Even the butler.
With best regards,
Michael Thomas Dotterweich, Lord of Dotterton Abbey
all photo credits except the one of the butler: Heather E.M. Dotterweich
