Zach bustles about, searching for his satchel and keys while hurriedly imbibing his morning brew. The air is awash with the rich, sweet, chicory aroma from the freshly brewed coffee pot. Alongside his coffee, he partakes of a beignet from the local café, its powdered sugar lightly dusting his fingers. Oh, how I yearn for the taste of those sweet, sugary confections! From my perch by the window, I observe him with amusement.

Occasionally, the unmistakable rumble of a streetcar draws my attention as it courses past. The clangor and clatter of its passage form a familiar symphony, accentuated by the sharp toll of its bell as it navigates the bend. I’m enthralled by the spectacle, watching intently as it hastens by, a fleeting blur of motion bound for destinations unknown.

His brow furrows as he paces the room in search of some misplaced item. “Princess, have you seen my keys?” he inquires. Powerless to assist, I can only gaze up at him, eyes brimming with sympathy. Zach stoops gracefully, his hands exploring the soft curls upon my head, administering a gentle scratch that elicits a shiver of sheer contentment from my spine. “You’re such a good girl. I know you’d help find them if you could.”

Although my frame relishes the soothing caresses bestowed by Zach, my mind oft wanders afar, adrift in the recollections of tempestuous seas and teeming ports of yore. My soul, ever thirsting for adventure, seems to hear the groan of ship timbers and the distant calls of gulls—echoes of a life once embraced with audacious abandon, now but a dim shadow, a faded memory. In those halcyon days, scarcely a soul was ignorant of the name Jean Lafitte, a figure celebrated far and wide as a dashing and enigmatic adventurer—some may say, a pirate and a smuggler, too, though their whispers were often tinged with a reluctant admiration.

Back then, my existence was imbued with the thrill of forbidden pursuits, the comforting warmth of bourbon, and the delightful presence of captivating women. Ah, les femmes! Their laughter was akin to melodious symphonies, their fragrances lingering in the air—their very presence a feast for the senses. Lying with a woman, admiring the grace and allure of her beauty, brought a delight unlike any other.

Alas, it is precisely this fondness for the company of the fairer sex that has led to my present plight, condemned to repeat my days not as a valiant sea rover, but as a white-haired, miniature poodle—a bitch, no less—in order to purportedly fathom the repercussions of my erstwhile whimsies of winning hearts and thoughtlessly casting them aside. I rue the day I crossed paths with that accursed voodoo temptress in the murky depths of the New Orleans bayous. Would that my earthly demise had been more permanent.

Eternal life is far overrated. While some souls might barter all for a taste of immortality, I would relinquish anything to escape this ceaseless torment. I’ve met my demise well nigh three dozen occasions—though the exact tally has long since faded from memory. With each passing, I awaken to tread this perilous path anew. Are others, too, bound by such malevolent spells? If so, I have yet to cross their path. Bereft of opposable thumbs and the faculty of human speech, my quest for illumination is grievously impaired.

Zach drains the last of his coffee, noting my watchful eyes on him. “Alright, Princess, I’m off now,” he declares with a congenial smile. “You be good, okay? And don’t you and Louie get into any trouble.”

My tail dutifully wags, yet the mention of the despicable feline Zach has lately taken in stirs a flicker of annoyance within me. With his sly green eyes and sneaky ways, Louie always seems poised to disrupt a perfectly tranquil day. As Zach readies himself to leave, a low growl rumbles up from my throat; my gaze sharply turns to the corner where that scheming cur, frequently nestles.

A hushed solemnity settles over the residence as the front door clicks shut and locks. As I embark on the measured journey toward the laundry chamber, my objective is clear. Now familiar, yet ever thrilling, this routine stands as the closest semblance to the adventures of my erstwhile life within this subdued existence. Each sock secreted away, each instance of Zach’s bemusement over his vanished footgear, kindles a spark of vitality within my otherwise mundane days.

With careful vigilance, I proceed toward the laundry chamber. My claws tap a subtle refrain against the cool, firm wooden floor, each step calculated and quiet. The distant drone of modern machinery in the kitchen provides a constant sonic backdrop, yet my senses stay sharply tuned for any sign of that troublesome feline.

Once upon the threshold of the laundry room, I momentarily halt. The air is rich with the scents of lavender and lilac, a vivid contrast to the stark lye I knew in my youth when tasked with similar chores. Modern contraptions that ease such tasks further convince me that today’s humans, perhaps, deserve a bit of harmless mischief in their otherwise easy lives. Thoughts of Pierre, my elder brother, drift through my mind. Together, we roamed the vine-draped hills of Pauillac and the vibrant markets of Bordeaux, a life so sharply contrasting with our unsavory existence later in the Americas. Nestled in my snug retreat, I ponder: might we have found peace on the winding streets of Bordeaux had we never ventured across the ocean?

The door to the laundry chamber is slightly open, revealing the basket of freshly laundered garments within. I delicately navigate through the items, my heart fluttering as I finally encounter the gold-striped sock I have long admired. Its rich amber tinge imbues me with feelings that stir memories of the daring heists I once masterminded. With finesse, I grasp it between my teeth, extracting it from the pile.

Cautiously scanning the doorway, the sock is clenched securely between my teeth. Ears sharply tuned, the slightest hint of Louie’s approach is listened for. With the path confirmed as clear, deliberate steps are taken, skillfully evading the infamous squeaky floorboards—a maneuver worthy of the most cunning of spies.

Suddenly, I am confronted by the peculiar, disk-shaped automaton that Zach so cherishes, calling it “a godsend,” though I find it nothing but a bother. It hums and whirrs on a cryptic path, an unpredictable nuisance that must be cleverly bypassed.

Just as I make my move, the machine stirs, its sensor seemingly fixed on me, though it pursues no clear quarry. It buzzes louder today, weaving erratically—it’s almost as if it performs a strange mechanical dance designed to befuddle or impede me. Yet, I am not so easily thwarted. Pausing, I observe its pattern, seeking the opportune moment to dash past. It swerves left, then jerks right, and for a breath, it seems it might charge directly at me. My heart races with the thrill of this modern-day game of cat and mouse.

Seizing my chance as it drifts off toward the corner, I sprint across its path, the sock flailing beside me. Silent and swift, I dart behind a chair to regain my composure, my heart pounding with the exhilaration of the escape. Having eluded this unpredictable foe, I press on toward the sanctuary of my hidden nook, eager to stow my prize.

Beneath Zach’s bed resides a cumbersome box, its contents unknown and untouched throughout our tenure here–an ideal barrier to shield my secretive undertakings. I tread cautiously to this secret vault only in Zach’s absence, for the peril of discovering the treasures I’ve amassed is too great.

As I am poised to navigate to Zach’s chamber, the startling clatter of a key in the front door arrests me. My frame stiffens; it is uncharacteristically early for his return—usually, he does not come back until the evening sky blushes with orange and pink hues.

A surge of panic courses through me as the door creaks ajar. Zach’s premature homecoming could only mean he has forgotten something—a disastrous twist for me. Reaching the bedchamber undetected now seems unfeasible. Clutching the sock between my teeth, I survey the room for a refuge, swiftly stashing it behind a decorative planter by the window. It is an imperfect hiding spot, but must suffice.

Zach enters and begins to shuffle about in the foyer. His voice soon permeates the room. “Princess? What are you up to?” he queries, walking past, ruffling his hand through the hair atop my head, prompting my tail to wag indiscriminately.

Fortuitously, he takes no notice of the sock. Our eyes lock briefly before he moves toward the kitchen, murmuring to himself, “Now, where is that charger?” My tension eases as he departs the living area.

Moments later, Zach returns, grasping what resembles a long, slender serpent with a gleaming tip—those peculiar devices humans connect to their luminous boxes. “Sorry to get you all excited, Princess, but I’ve still got to get to work,” he speaks softly, patting my head. “We’ll go for an extra-long walk this evening, okay?”

In response, I lick his hand affectionately, drawing a smile from him as he makes for the door. Among the various masters I have served throughout my manifold lives, Zach proves to be the most benevolent. Given the nefarious dealings in human bondage that I once facilitated, I may be unworthy of such kindness. The click of the door confirms his departure, and only then do I cautiously retrieve the sock and resume my trek to the bedchamber.

Nearing the doorway, a soft purr freezes me in place. Louie materializes from the darkness, his incisive eyes scrutinizing me. Since the days of my youth when a cat’s claw marred me, I have maintained an aversion to these capricious, lofty creatures.

The feline emits a sharp hiss, inciting me to charge with a formidable bark and bared teeth. Like my storied engagement at the Battle of New Orleans, this contest is one I am bound to conquer. The sock slips from my mouth, unnoticed by Louie as it falls to the ground. Although we are similar in stature, my slight edge in bravery fortuitously compels the wily cat to retreat down the corridor, thus relinquishing the bedchamber to my rule.

With a breath of relief, I retrieve the sock and proceed with measured steps toward the bed. Casting a wary glance to verify that Louie has not made a return, I ascertain that the path is secure and quickly slip beneath the bed.

Behind the veil of the box rests my secret trove, wherein lie the treasures amassed through my various escapades. My newly acquired prize is added to my collection that boasts half a dozen socks, a plastic ball Louie once admired, and a gleaming wristwatch, once the possession of a companion Zach entertained one evening, replete with drink. They shared a boisterous night indeed, as the walls themselves seemed to shake with their uproarious laughter and shouts that echoed from the bedchamber.

Of all the companions Zach has brought to our abode, this one in particular was my least favored, for he deemed it suitable to exclude me from the chamber, monopolizing Zach’s company entirely for himself. Such an affront could not stand unchallenged; his watch now resides as a trophy in my collection, a small recompense for his exclusionary actions.



Laying amidst the shadows of my hidden enclave, my tail beats a joyful cadence against the wooden floor. As I survey the cache of treasures I have cleverly amassed, the eternal curse is forgotten for a brief moment. Though this existence bears little resemblance to the life of Jean Lafitte, my spirit remains indomitable. Enfolded in the quiet embrace of the house, oblivious to my machinations, I prepare for a restful slumber. Drifting off to the memories of the vast, open sea, I dream of the morrow’s exploits, and the life yet to live.