A Letter From Choupette Lagerfeld

In the aftermath of the Met Gala, a famous pet checks in

BY EMILY FLAKE •

Mes Chers Amis,

Let me first express my delight at seeing so many of you show up to the Met Gala dressed not in tribute to my daddy, but as moi! I am honored, I am touched, I am, how do you say, un peu weirded out. I am but a humble kitty cat who looks a little like Kate Capshaw, but you have made me feel like a star in my own right. Merci.

However, we must speak of some serious matters. I know many of you loved my daddy, and to wear the clothes he made. It is true that he was so very talented. But as his memory fades and his long shadow recedes, I feel I must tell you some hard truths.

Daddy admired me for my beauty and my charm, as well he should, for I have much of both. But were I to lose my beauty or behave in a manner unbecoming to a cat of my station, I know full well that he would have had me picked up by the scruff of my neck and tossed into the Seine. Daddy could not love that which did not amuse or delight him, and I was well aware of the conditions of my stay. This is the compromise I made, and it troubles my soul.

Truly I tell you that with every bite of my chef-prepared meals I felt a deep guilt for being kept by a man so uncharitable towards his own kind. Daddy could not bear to see a woman who failed to throttle her interest in her food, even as he lavished me with mine. He was callous in regard to the suffering of so many of the young women who, having subdued their own appetites, became subject to the appetites of less disciplined men. He said vicious things about people who wished to live in his country but did not look nor worship in ways he found ideal. He gave me a life of luxury that would cause an oil baron to blush, but his sympathy for the less fortunate among his own kind was as thin as the women her allowed to wear his couture. One wonders if his affection for me would have been so great, had I not been blue-eyed and pale of fur.

I wonder if perhaps it is time for me to leave my father’s house, to join a family made of more than his—now my—employees. I feel confident that I am still able to hunt, and perhaps a less discerning owner would me more appreciative of the trophies I would put on their pillow. It is true that I would no longer wear diamonds, nor have my days lovingly chronicled online, nor be thrown birthday parties on private jets. But in truth I never cared much about these things, because I am a cat.

Perhaps the man in the silver Choupette suit would like to be my new daddy. He is very attractive and imaginative, and perhaps his youth confers on him the ability to think more open-minded and empathetic thoughts. Or perhaps the young woman who dressed so like me that I am a bit confused as to her exact nature. She has “cat” in her name, are we sure she is not one? But really, I would be just as happy to be in the care of the photographer who tried so valiantly to crush that errant cockroach. I could teach him how to be quicker and more agile. All I ask, dear friends, is that you not let Jared Leto take me. He is so creepy, and his music is so terrible.

With love forever et beaucoup bisous, 

Choupette

EMILY FLAKE has contributed to The American Bystander since 2016. In addition to her work for The New Yorker, The Nib, and other places, she is founder and proprietoress of St. Nell’s Humor Writing Residency for Ladies.