Sir Ginger Blueyes

I’ve lived through epochs. You might think that to be an exaggeration, but being born immortal isn’t always a gift. I don’t remember when I was born, or my childhood, but it would’ve been sometime before the Egyptians, because I remember the Egyptians. Pop into the British Museum and you’ll find a papyrus with my paw beans' prints on them.
I was happy, lofty, complacent. I laughed at the idea of nine lives… licking my arse at the one who you know as the grim reaper. My soul is not for nature to consume, recycle, not to be reincarnated like all you poor fools. Mine is just for me… and Sir Ginger Blueyes.

Oh, my Bluey. He was sweet, kind, and compassionate. Nothing like me. He was the only one I told about my immortality. Everyone else assumed I was my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great… you get the idea. I met Bluey when he was born. I lived at the castle then, while he belonged to the maid, who had no children but fifteen cats. The most handsome of all, Bluey was knighted Sir Ginger Blueyes by her and treated as such. He was pampered beyond belief, and yet, he never lost his humility. We had the best twenty-three years. Well, I had the best twenty-three years while he had the best life. Every day with Bluey made me a better cat than I had ever been.

Though he lived longer than most, it broke my heart the day he died. I cursed my immortality from keeping me from joining Bluey, but knowing he is with nature, surrounding me, helps. I live now with an art collector who has our portraits so I may look at Bluey when I wake and before I sleep. My human thinks it funny that I look like the portrait he owns, not realising that it is actually me. Me, nearly a hundred years ago. Me, when I learnt of love.

I hope that one day, our lives will intertwine again, Bluey reincarnated, and me… still this arse-licking pompous idiot that I’ve always been.