It seems everyone’s doing it these days. Writing a memoir, that is. You know.…spill the family beans. Air the dirty laundry. It would seem that having been physically or emotionally abused is a requisite for writing a memoir….at least if you expect it to sell. So, let me confirm, in these opening words, that I have been abused. And abused. And abused.
But, first allow me to introduce myself. Some of you know me. Some of you have sat on me. In spite of that level of intimacy, you might not know my name. I am “Russell’s Chair.” (Russell was Sallie’s father.) I came to live with Sallie and her family about 15 years ago.
When I arrived, I was pristine! Covered with a taupe silkish/linenish fabric. My clothes weren’t new but they’d been beautifully maintained in my former life. Fresh as the day they were stitched on me. No stains, in spite of Russell’s smoking habit. Sometimes, he’d fall asleep with a cigarette in his hand and I would quake with fear. But not one ash ever fell on me. No, the abuse I suffered was far more dire than a silly little ash.
You see, it all started with The Cat. The one Sallie brought home a couple of years ago from the Humane Society with a promise not to remove its claws. Now you see where I’m going, don’t you?
I find myself getting emotional here so I’ll cut to the chase. The Cat put me at the top of his list of things to destroy. The family noticed but hoped he’d quit. Au contraire, Dear Reader. On and on it went, the tearing and shredding. My back, my arm rests, finally my seat. They had to act. Oh, not on the precious cat but rather on me.
New clothes were picked out. Wolfgang, the master upholsterer, did his magic and I looked grand, once again. How long do you think it took for The Cat to go at me again?
This time, he started with the roping around my legs. Now here comes the ultimate abuse. Instead of dealing with The Cat, they bought some paint !!!!. Paint that matched the color of my new suit. And they “touched me up” so no one would notice the damage, the ripping, the shredding. The silent abuse.
I’m sure you understand my trauma. By now, of course, The Cat has, once again, moved on to my back, my arms. I’m waiting for the seat. It won’t be long. And I overheard THEM talking about it yesterday. There were two horrifying words: More Paint. Have they no mercy?
So, do you think I’ll make the best seller list? Perhaps the royalties could pay for a new suit. Or, even better, and I know this is evil, the mysterious disappearance of The Cat?