The lady was pissed off. OK, this wasn't exactly news--she spent most of her time in some sort of snit or another--but this one was downright scary. Objects flew, floorboards shuddered, and everywhere was broken glass, shards of crockery, splinters of wood. And the sound! Oh the sound of her roaring and riling, snatches of angry words, mixed liberally with unintelligible screams and raving.

Atop a bookcase, and behind a potted plant, a black and orange striped tabby sat. Hiding, that was his strategy. Keep hidden, keep out of the way. Once the tantrum stopped she was just as likely to cuddle him with affection as toss him unceremoniously into his cage. So he hid. And he waited.

But this was no ordinary temper, and when a large candle slammed into the potted plant and nearly crushed the cat, he knew he had to get out. He had to find an opening. Normally, he could've slipped out the door on his own. A high jump and a perfectly placed paw would dislodge the door handle and allow him to slip unnoticed from the room. Apparently, though, she had plotted against him. The handle refused to turn, and his brief exposure gave her a chance to take clear aim with a particularly large ceramic bowl. It crashed into the door just inches above his head, covering him in dust and shrapnel before he could skitter across the room and beneath the bed.

She'd locked the door. He was a talented cat, but even if he'd had one, he couldn't work a key.

Most days she doted on him. She hugged him, carried him, petted him while he purred in contentment. Even her tantrums rarely disturbed him. As long as he got his tuna fish and his thirteen hours of sleep, he was happy to endure her rants. This one, however, appeared to be directed at him.

Was it the hairball in her shoe? The puddle of urine just outside his box of litter? Surely it couldn't be the way his claws had sunk so satisfyingly into the new dress she'd hung on the door. In his opinion it was much prettier now, with all those ribbons of fabric to add interest and detail. Surely he'd done her a favor.

She was screaming again. Something about "prom" and "date" and "tomorrow."

Seeking a tactical advantage, he slunk across the windowsill in search of higher ground across the room. Spotting him, she threw a huge book, which crashed into the window, spraying splinters of glass everywhere.

The cat needed no invitation. He saw the opening and he took it. In a streak of orange and black, he surged through the gap and into the real world. It was a world long denied to him. But he remembered it. He remembered catching mice. He remembered running wild. And he remembered being found. She had found him, and clung to him, and taken him home. She'd fed him tuna fish and lavished him with attention and abuse.

So maybe it would happen again. He would be clever. He would play to his strengths. Didn't she tell him every day what a beauty he was? How wonderful, how loveable? Oh yes, someone else would take him in. Someone else with tuna fish and a litter box. And if he was lucky, he would get a new name. A name worthy of him. Something with dignity. Something he could be proud of. Not--and here he shuddered to remember--not Bumblebee.