Introduction to our CEO

To our valued customers.

This is the House Lion writing to you, so stop whatever you’re doing and pay attention to me.

Since taking over as CEO at Zealaus Publishing here in Rose Bank House, I have been making changes.

I could go on at length about my displeasure at the way the business was being run before my fortuitus arrival on the grounds of Rose Bank House, but I will save that for another report.

Having garnered thousands of views on YouTube for my forthright leadership style (yes, all that biting and clawing really is necessary with staff as stupid as mine), I have concluded that what you would all really like to hear about is…me.

 Obviously.

Some of you have complimented my beauty. Thank you. I appreciate that. What I do not appreciate is some of you claiming that I am a ragdoll.

I am not.

I am a Balinese of royal descent. You may be more familiar with my shorthaired cousins, the Siamese.

I am similar, but better.

I arrived at Zealaus Publishing almost a year ago. I was enhancing my vast property portfolio. Although I am only two years old, I own thirty-seven residential properties, two public parks, a museum and most of the hospital carpark. I’m in negotiations for the rest of it.

Since I doubt any of you had acquired this much real estate by your second birthday, I will outline my stratospheric success story for you.

It will make you feel inferior, as is proper.

My mother wanted me to get a steady, safe job as a house cat. “Aim to be cuddly and cute,” she said, “and you’ll never lack a warm bed and a steady income of jelly meat.”

That might work for cats, but I quickly realized I am not a cat.

I am a lion.

Being cute and cuddly was making me miserable. So I left that house, and I set out to acquire a property empire.

My first piece of real estate was my most impactful deal. I had just finished placing my deposit under a jacaranda tree when some worthless, lemon coloured cat came slinking up.

“You’re not going to just leave that there, are you?” she hissed.

I gazed loftily at her. “That was the general idea, Sheila.”

She glared at me. “My name is not Sheila! And you can’t just do your business on the top of my lawn! Dig a hole and bury that mess!”

I was young. I had naively assumed that my entrepreneurial goals would be universally  admired.

I was shocked by the negative, smallness of her mindset. “What do you mean your lawn?” I asked in a low, controlled voice.

“You heard me! This is MY lawn, bury that horrible mess and push off!”

People often ask me how an up-and-coming tycoon deals with dream crushers. I’ll tell you how I deal with dream crushers.

I crush THEM.

I walloped that small-minded house cat. Then I chased her up a cactus. “I have acquired this property!” I shouted up at her. “It is now MY property and I recommend you take up permanent residence on that cactus, because if I find you trespassing on MY property, I will be obliged to eat you!

“You horrible bully!” screeched the ugly, lemon coloured cat. “I hate you!”

“Oderint dum metuant,” I said, with a swagger.

“WHAT?”

“Let them hate, as long as they also fear! And now, with you watching, I shall close this deal by washing down my fence!”

“DON’T YOU DARE!”

But I did.

And that is how I gained my first property at only one year of age.

I learned a lot from this encounter. I learned that not even a hefty, fragrant deposit is enough to seize real estate if you don’t have the muscle to back up your purchases.

Fortunately, I am a lion, so I was able to keep what I claimed.

Thus, I stalked through the town of Griffith, joining land to land, until I was the master of all my icy blue eyes surveyed.

It was a good life. I sneered at the cats who had settled for cuddling and cuteness and regular salaries of jelly meat. And when I was done sneering, I wopped them with joy and took their land.

Oh, it was good to be a lion in a world of cats.

Except…

As the winter drew close, and the storms set in…all my land and wealth began to feel vaguely empty.  

I joined a commune of wild cats for a while, but something was still missing.

And it was as I was living with this commune of wild cats; I chanced to wander across the back garden of Rose Bank House.

And at that moment, some woman came out of the house yelling, “puss puss puss!”

I looked at her. I looked at the nice big house.

I thought about the artic blasts that would soon be arriving from the South Pole.

The emptiness was explained. I was lonely.

I needed a family.

I marched over to her and into the house. If I had to be cute and cuddly for a couple of months, I could do it.

In any case, she looked a dim sort of human. There was another equally dim woman in the house.

Domination should not be too hard.

And that is how I arrived at Rose Bank House.

Naturally, I took over Zealaus Publishing as soon as I saw what a rotten job they were doing of running it.

That’s how I arrived. I’m sick of writing now. It’s very hard to do it with paws.

I will write to you again when I want too.

Regards, Eureka, CEO of Zealaus Publishing.

Writing Copywrite R.M. Hamilton 2025