by Rae Earl
Someone has already relabeled the video: “INSANE Cat Goes Mad Behind Seriously Upset Girl.” That version has over 75,362 views already.
There are loads of comments. Mostly about Dave.
Cat is EVERYTHING
Need Dave. NOW.
Sitting in my pajamas. School starts in four hours. Worth it.
Fake
THAT CAT IS INSANE
Get cat on Dancing with the Stars. Want to see her samba and argentine tango.
Cat needs own channel
Like if you’re watching this when you should be asleep!
(This comment has 612 likes.)
Like if you’re watching this and you’d like to lose 20lbs on the guava diet!
(This comment has no likes.)
Finally, I’ve gone viral.
For potentially all the wrong reasons, but it’s actually very sweet that some people enjoyed the message and not the sight of a cat doing the rumba while attacking something that looks like it’s wearing a feathery balaclava. So maybe Dave’s gone viral and I’ve …
I’ve also got … more than 5,680 new subscribers!
I scream! Teresa rushes in and wants to know what’s happening. I tell her that I’ve gone viral. Teresa opens up the window and shouts, “MILLIE IS VIRAL. HEAR HER!!”
Granddad yells from downstairs, “Is it contagious?! I can’t risk it. I had shingles two years ago.”
The postman shouts from the street, “I’m thrilled, but I can’t deliver with this cat threatening me. There are laws against this, you know.”
Me and Teresa jump up and down on the bed for a few minutes, then reality slaps me.
The problem is I know that my going viral will lead to the following things:
1. TOTAL laughs at my expense. I will never be able to move on from this, and it will become legendary.
2. Danny deciding that I am just about the worst example of girlfriend material that there could ever be.
3. Granddad getting angry that Dave has trashed his calendar.
4. Mum thinking that something terrible is about to happen to me.
5. Erin …
Erin. I check Mr. Style Shame.
The entire account has been deleted.
It must have been Erin. I saw right through her, and she went for the safe self-destruct option. I can’t quite believe it.
My phone vibrates.
It’s Bradley. He doesn’t even say hello.
“You know what you need to do, don’t you?” he almost yells. Enthusiasm is unheard of from Bradley (except when it comes to lifts).
“Yes. I’m thinking of moving to Paraguay and changing my name.”
“I don’t think you need to do that. All you need to do is make a vlog called ‘Cats Happen,’ where you explain that life, like cats called Dave, is completely unpredictable and you’ve got to roll with it and get on with it and not worry too much. You can still give great advice. Get Dave in on it. I think it would be really funny. Laugh with the people laughing at you, Mills, and BUILD ON IT.”
“Oh, because that’s so easy to do—especially with Dave, the biggest cat diva ever!” I say. Bradley gets my inner sarcasm like no one else.
“No,” he replies. “It’s not easy, but it’s the right thing. Seriously. The video is really funny, and you know what? You are…”
And I can hear Bradley really thinking about what he is going to say.…
“You are really cool in it and kind. And if you read all the comments, it’s not just about Dave. It’s about how you sound like a genuinely lovely person.”
When I start groaning loudly, Bradley shuts me up. “No—you do! You do! Seriously. Millie, this is a real opportunity now. Everyone will be wondering what you’re going to do next. So do something brilliant. Make people realize … how special you are.”
At that moment, I can sense that Bradley feels like he may have gone a bit too far.
“Anyway,” Bradley says, “just do it and see what happens. See you soon. Bye … superstar.”
And Bradley is right. I need to swallow the feeling inside of me that makes me just want to escape by paddling to Paraguay on an inflatable novelty doughnut (Teresa has one), and do a vlog to end all vlogs. But what do I do about Bradley? I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but I think I really fancy—
Danny. No, he’s not Danny, but Danny is calling.…
“Lady viral sensation! How is life?”
(What is it with men not saying “Hello” today?)
“It’s interesting,” I say calmly. “I’ve been totally upstaged by a cat.”
“The world loves it. I love it. I think you and Dave are both quirky in that really good British way that’s actually sort of Canadian, really.”
I’m feeling the patriotic sass. “Didn’t we have it first, as actually we did technically invent you?”
Danny pauses. “Okay, well, it’s probably the Chinese bit of you. OR the French part of you, which is the really cool bit—La Millie-Millait.” (He says it like a really sexy French boy.)
I have no idea what he means, so I just say, “Bon,” which, apart from le stylo and la chaise, is the only French word I can remember.
“Why I’m calling,” Danny sort of stutters, “is … Would you like to meet me and talk about whatever YOU want to talk about?”
Things have officially got BIG. SERIOUS. MASSIVE. SCARY.
“What about Erin?”
“We’ve been hanging out a bit,” Danny says, and he sounds like he’s telling the truth. “When I first met her, I thought she was really friendly and cute, but she’s got hidden depths. If I’m honest, it’s the same way a rattlesnake has got hidden depths.”
That’s what I love about Danny. He’s Canadian and naturally knows lots about horrible, dangerous, exotic animals.
Danny carries on.
“But I wanted to tell you, Erin told me yesterday that she runs Mr. Style Shame. I saw your comment. You guessed correctly. After that post last night, I pretty much knew it could only be her. It was dumb of her, really. Honestly I don’t really want to be associated with someone who runs an account like that. I just think it’s nasty. She’s got a really nasty streak. I don’t like that. And her Instagram was a bit much as well. Not that I’m Mr. Gorgeous or anything. I’m not, but she was … she is … jealous of you, because she knows I think you are funny and … cute.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t quite believe all this is happening.
“Anyway,” Danny says nervously, “would you like to do something on the weekend? Say on Saturday afternoon? We could get ice cream from that little Italian place on the high street? I read a great blog post about it.”
I surprise myself by what I say.
“Danny, that sounds lovely. I’d really like to, but I’ve just got to sort a couple of things out first. Can I message you later about it?”
“Sure,” he says. “Speak to you in a bit.”
I feel sensible again. I feel like I just need … time. Time to work this all out.
I take a big breath. I need to get ready for school, or I’m going to be really late, but I also want to see what Erin has posted on HER account recently. Yes! I know. I should get over it, but I can’t.
Erin’s most recent post is an Instagram photo of her in kitten ears. AGAIN.
These are the sort of cats I like. They don’t shed hair everywhere. They are easily controlled and they make you look really cute.
She hasn’t got that many likes. People must have realized that SHE was the person making their fashion lives HELL. If they don’t, everyone will know at school in about two hours this morning.
I think a nonhuman may have finally beat Erin. Dave the cat. YouTube superstar. Rebel. Icon. Mess maker. SLAYER OF THE BREELER.
I’m not stupid. Erin will be back and probably worse than ever. This is real life, and real life is complicated. Bad girls sometimes win, but … I think I’ve won this part of the war. Well, Dave has, technically, but I am h
er commander in chief.
#IRL
When the history of our time is written, they might call this the greatest Friday ever. Everyone’s been giving Erin massive evils. There’s even a new phrase at school—the Evil Erin. It means you MAJOR death-stare someone and make them feel AWFUL. But I’m trying to be realistic. Everyone knows now that she’s Mr. Style Shame, but she’s still gorgeous and everyone will eventually forgive her and she’ll be back.
I don’t care. Lauren and I are friends again, AND people think my cat is seriously cool. And I think that because of what people have said at school today, Dave and I need to do one FINAL vlog. If only I could find her.
On the way to the shed, Granddad tackles me. “I’ve noticed, Millie, that you spend a huge amount of time getting the perfect self-photograph or the perfect ‘vog’ whilst time is passing you by. Have you tried actually sitting with people and talking to them face-to-face?”
“That’s life now!” I tell Granddad gently. “And it’s selfie and VLOG.”
“Whatever,” Granddad snaps. “But I hope you also realize that life is happening now. Real life.” And he pokes me in the shoulder. “Put your phone down—it’s not the be all and end all of the universe. Another thing—boys are not always playing games. They are confused, too, you know. And don’t go full-on. Leave some mystery.”
This is some of the lecture I have heard Granddad give to Teresa many times. It’s his speech from the last century. The best thing to do is to nod and say, “Yes!”
He may have a point about the phone, though. But I can think about that after I’ve done my vlog.
“And I’m not happy with my ripped-up calendar, Millie, but I will just have to live with it.”
“Sorry, Granddad,” I say, and bow my head. He’s right. A destroyed plover is a slightly tragic thing to see. “I’ll buy you a new one for Christmas.”
When I open the shed door, Dave appears from nowhere and darts her way in. It’s like she’s a celebrity and she knows it.
I sit on the big chair, and Dave dives onto the space next to me. She curls her tail around the front of her body and sits quietly in front of the camera. I’m feeling a mixture of brave, going-to-be-sick, terrified, and excited. I start filming.…
“Hello! It’s me, Millie, and this is Dave, and yes, I purposefully have her in the shot this time.
“So obviously lots of you saw the video, and lots of you are still seeing the video where I’m trying to make a serious point about looking after your friends, and Dave—her name is Dave, by the way—decided to freak out in the background and try to kill my granddad’s calendar.
“I was, as you can imagine, feeling totally embarrassed and was genuinely thinking about moving abroad and changing my name until I realized that YouTube is global anyway. Besides, I can’t do that as I have a family who loves me loads despite being completely insane, and they would miss me. As would my lovely friends, too, including my friend Bradley. Do go and check out his vlog about escalators. I KNOW it doesn’t sound cool, but you may actually really come to appreciate them. I sort of have. Plus it was my brilliant friend Bradley who said I should just get back on here and say look—you can’t tell cats what to do. And this is my advice about cats and life in general. You can’t control any of it, and that is really, really scary. So what you have to do is just let mad cats and mad life do their thing and go with it. You’ve just got no control.…
“Remember the very first vlog I did? It’s just the same thing.
“For example” (and I point to Dave and command) “Dave, attack the bird!”
(Dave does nothing.)
“Dave, go on two legs and pretend you’re on a TV dance competition!”
(Dave does nothing.)
“You see? No control. So this is me, Millie Porter—stress-head, Queen of Sensible, control freak, in charge of a completely unpredictable, uncontrollable life and cat—saying that you should try to chill out as much as you can. Even if you own a mad feline. Bye! Hashtag Help is out of here FOREVER!”
Dave still does nothing.
I upload and feel sort of good about things.
As I message Danny to say I will meet him on Saturday, Dave starts to act odd. Typical. When I need her to act calm, she acts strange.
Mum is staring in through the shed’s tiny window. She sees me looking, storms in, and grabs hold of my hand.
“Mills. I’ve got something to tell you, and it’s very important.”
#Revelation
The terrible part of me wants it to be that she has split up with the Neat Freak. The thing about love is that it makes you just a little bit mad, and Mum should know. Love has condemned her to a life of bleach, but there are worse things I suppose. I keep all those bad feelings to myself.
“No—I haven’t split up with Gary.”
Why can she always mind-read me with such total rightness?!
“No. It’s about my head. You see, Millie, your head is like mine, and I know what’s going on with it.”
Parents are very worrying when they say things like this, because they almost certainly have no idea how you are feeling and how your brain is working.
Mum can sense my doubts. “No, really, I can. We’ve got the same brain. And the brilliant thing about our brains is that they’re clever and they make good decisions. That seems boring now, but I promise it won’t be boring when you’re thirty-eight.”
Even I don’t care about being thirty-eight, but I go with it.
“But I want to tell you about the trees and me.”
I am seriously worried.
“The thing is,” Mum continues, “when I was little, there was this thing that was killing loads of trees. It was called Dutch elm disease. And I totally got it into my head that Dutch elm disease could spread to humans.”
I don’t want to sound insensitive. “Mum, where is this going?”
“Listen!” she says, sounding very irritated. “I got myself into a total state. And all these trees were dying, and there was no Internet. You couldn’t just google things. You had to go to the library and grown-ups told you NOTHING. So I thought I was dying. With the trees.”
I’m confused.
“So you’re saying you were green and environmentally friendly before most other people.”
“No, Millie. I’m saying that I was worried about things and GOT ANXIETY like you get. I HAD IT. We didn’t call it anxiety then. It was called … just being pathetic. BUT IT WASN’T. And your brain, I CAN SEE, has the same thing. A lot of people have it. Usually very clever people who are connected and level-headed and…”
“Preach, Mum, preach,” I say—a bit sarcastically, I have to admit.
“No, I need you to really listen, Millie.”
And I can see that Mum is tearing up a bit, so I shut up. That is sensible.
“When you’ve got a brain like that, you have to learn to look after it and train it. And you don’t have to pretend to be strong when you aren’t feeling strong. It’s fine to say, ‘I don’t know what to do.’ It’s fine to say, ‘I can’t cope.’ It’s fine to say, ‘I’ve started this brilliant vlog,’ and, Millie, it is great, by the way, but actually it’s fine to say, ‘I don’t know the answer to every question and right now I just need to keep MY head together.’”
“Is that what you did?” This is a major revelation.
“No.” Mum looks down. “And I paid for it. I ended up being very poorly. In my head. I was in the hospital. With this…”
Mum taps her head.
It’s so odd! I have never ever thought my mum could be the sort of person that would ever be mentally ill. In a silly way, I thought she was a bit barking for going out with Gary the Neat Freak, but that’s it. Not THIS.
“Mum, I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You’re clever and sensible, Millie, but you don’t give children more than they can actually cope with. It’s not fair. When your dad and I split up, we were very sure that both of us were going to make it as ea
sy for you as possible. So you never saw the time when I threw an entire packet of premium pork-cider-and-apple sausages at him.”
Mum laughs. “It’s funny now.” She giggles. “It wasn’t funny then.”
Why do adults always throw groceries at each other? Wet sponges would be a wiser, better option.
“You’re a beautiful, clever, brilliant girl. It’s lovely that you want to help people and just give people some of YOU, because YOU are wonderful. I’m not saying stop doing it—what I am saying is that you don’t have to fix people. It’s YOUR job to take care of your head and not bring anyone else down. That’s all. Anything else is a bonus.”
After all this, there is one question that is mainly in the front of my head.
“Can you get Dutch elm disease?”
“No.” Mum shakes her head. “But you can get splinters from trying to cuddle trees and make them better. And yes, I did. And yes, I recycle. And that’s why my car is electric. You find your little ways to make things … better. Because I still watch the news and think … well … There’s always been what you would call ‘twonks,’ Millie—twonks in your life and twonks on the news, and you—”
“I get it, Mum.” I look at her. This has been a major lecture session, but … it has helped a bit.
“Mum, if you ever want to talk about what happened—”
Mum interrupts and goes all hard-faced. “Millie, I don’t. It happened. I got through it. And look at me now. A lovely daughter”—she gets hold of me and hugs me—“and a great job and a man that DOES THE HOOVERING.”
I shake my head. Mum knows what I am thinking. “Believe you me, Millie, I know Gary seems like a pain, but a man that enjoys the feel of a dustpan and brush, and sends you flowers all the time, makes you laugh, and is kind, is a pretty good man. But that’s a chat for another time. Men are wonderful, but they are not the solution. Or women. You may be a lesbian. Which is fine, by the way.”
By this stage, it’s beginning to feel like I’m listening to a really uncomfortable speech that Mum has planned for years and years, but anyway.
She gives me a hug. I’m proud. And then she pinches my arm. “All I am saying is, just don’t forget the people who are around you. I’m not saying the people on there”—her finger slams on the glass screen of my phone a little too hard for my liking—“I’m not saying the people on there aren’t lovely, but can they do this?”