A certain poise is necessary when proceeding down the stairs to greet your slaves.
Some of my kind prefer to do so in cute, unsuspecting ways that guide the thoughts and actions of their slaves. Those sorts of fluff-tailed felines – often of the ragdoll persuasion – would rather flop about like a slave’s child. This is effective but undignified.
I much prefer to look my part. They know that I’m above them and that they are expected to feed me at a moment’s meowl.
The light is on in the hall, and despite the bustling noise of the outside world my slaves often escape to, presumably to obtain more food for my bowl, my elegant ears can hear them.
They talk loudly in their own mumble-language.
Shouting.
Something drops and breaks, shattering against the tile floor.
To me, growling and hissing are more effective, even a bap added in the case of particularly nasty situations. Instead, the slaves prefer to bark like dogs. Yet another reason they’re slaves to my kind… oversized, dumb kittens who don’t know how to hunt right.
Set a mouse in front of them and they bark their mumble language at it. If they did not have me to watch over this home, they would have perished long ago.
I wait for them to clean their mess before meowling for my food to be topped off.