Washed by Mary. A hateful business. Put into a tub, and rubbed all over—mouth, tail, and everywhere—with filthy soapy water, that loathsome cat looking on all the while, and sneering in her dashed superior way. I don’t know, I am sure, why the hussy should be so conceited. She has to clean herself. I keep a servant to clean me. At the same time I often wish I was a black dog. They keep clean so much longer. Every finger-mark shows up so frightfully on the white part of me. I am a sight after Cook has been stroking me.
Showed myself in my washed state to the family. All very nice to me. Quite a triumphal entry, in fact. It is simply wonderful the amount of kudos I’ve got from that incident with the man. Miss Brown (whom I rather like) particularly enthusiastic. Kissed me again and again, and called me “a dear, clean, brave, sweet-smelling little doggie.”
While a visitor was being let in at the front-door I rushed out, and had the most glorious roll in the mud. Felt more like my old self then.
Visited the family again. Shrieks of horror on seeing me caked in mud. But all agreed that I was not to be scolded to-day as I was a hero (over the man!). All, that is, except Aunt Brown, whose hand, for some reason or other, is always against me—though nothing is too good for the cat. She stigmatised me, quite gratuitously, as “a horrid fellow.”
Glorious thought! Rushed upstairs and rolled over and over on the old maid’s bed. Thank Heaven, the mud was still wet!
Down into kitchen. While Cook is watching regiment pass, I play with chops, and bite big bits out of them. Cook, who is quite upset for the day by seeing so many soldiers, continues to cook the chops without noticing.
Attacked by beast of cat again. She scratched my hind-leg, and at that I refused to go on. Mem.: to take it out of her kittens later.
Upstairs into dining-room. Family not finished lunch yet. Young Mr. Brown throws a bread pellet at me, hitting me on the nozzle. An insult. I swallow the insult. Then I go up to Miss Brown and look at her with my great pleading eyes. I guessed it: they are irresistible. She gives me a piece of pudding. Aunt Brown tells her she shouldn’t. At which, with great pluck, Miss Brown tells her to mind her own business. I admire that girl more and more.