It is now 12 weeks since my capture and incarceration. Initially, I was so weak from the trauma of being caught that all I could do was eat and rest. Now, however, I have begun to regain my strength, and my mind turns to other things: Escape, of course, is paramount; and in pursuit of said paramount goal, a deeper understanding of my guards. For I have come to believe that only through complete understanding of these fiends can I discover a means of escape.

With my lightning-fast reflexes and intellect honed to a razor-edge keenness, I have no fear for my ability to ultimately overcome these dreadful circumstances. Recently I have begun to wonder if Mommy and Daddy suffered some kind of… well, debilitating head trauma. The evidence certainly seems to point in that direction.

For example, they continually sing ridiculous songs, or even make up terrible ditties narrating their actions, as if they were in some kind of nightmarish musical. Why would I meet them when the moon is over the cow-shed, and what is a moon or a cow-shed, anyway? What does “skiddamarink-a-dink-a-dink” mean, and why do they repeat it so often? Why would I want to merrily go to sleep, when by fussing I can cause my nemeses distress?

I admit, I kind of like the wheels on the bus song, and the way Mommy and Daddy move my arms and legs. But that’s only because I believe the motions help keep me flexible (always a forte of mine, if I may say so) and help build coordination.  I seem to have list all the finely-tuned proprioception so arduously gained prior to my capture, and now I must laboriously relearn everything.

To this end, I assiduously practice knocking over towers of blocks piled up by my captors – this has the additional benefit of also thwarting them at every turn. I also delicately tap the bizarrely compelling objects hung above my auxiliary cell; some make noise, and are obviously alarms, because that noise almost always summons a jailer.

Finally, Mommy and Daddy have devised a new torture – they call it Tummy Time – in which they place me on my stomach, where I’m as helpless as a flipped beetle. But unbeknownst to them, I have begun subverting their scheme: I use Tummy Time to practice raising my head and pushing up with my arms, building strength for my escape, all while crying and screaming to deceive them into thinking this torture works.

I continue my resistance in other subtle ways, too. One day, Mommy fed me (milk, as usual) and instead of swallowing it all, I saved a big mouthful and spit it over her shirt. She held me out and exclaimed something that sounded dismayed (I am still mastering the language, so I’m not sure the exact words). I figured I might as well make her dismay complete, so I dribbled the remainder – a quite decent volume, really – out onto her pants. That trick only worked once, but it made up for many hours of misery.

I hope and trust that this captivity will not proceed much longer, but even if it does, I remain ever steadfast in my refusal to succumb to the seduction of capitulation. Never give up! Never surrender!


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