I’ve Been Shot…!

…in the line of duty! 

This morning I was demonstrating to young Mosby, one of the urchin kittens who has apparently decided to stick around the house instead of going out and getting a job or something, what you are NOT supposed to be doing – viz. getting on the kitchen table. 

I am, naturally, of the school of thought that actions speak louder than words, and what better way to demonstrate a no-no than by actively pursuing it? So, making sure he was watching, I squatted down, waggled my rear and made a flying leap at the kitchen table, landing ever so neatly (if not softly) in the middle. I turned to be sure Mosby was still observing – young kids these days are so easily distracted – then proceeded to stroll leisurely along the edge, stopping here and there to sniff for possible food fragments. Nothing, as usual – you’d think just once Mummy would leave some crumbs for me but no. 

Again checking to be sure my young protégé was agog with wonder (naturally he was), I sat down, lifted my back leg over my head and began a nice leisurely bath when I suddenly felt a zap in my hindquarters. 

Oh the pain – the agony! 

They got me this time….oooooooh; 

I‘m dying….this is it……..uuungh….

What is that terrible smell?? 

Death, it is Death come for me!

*sigh*

I should point out here that Mummy has been using certain...er, disciplinary measures of late to keep the urchins Mosby and Morgan off the aforementioned dining table, including a gun (cleverly disguised as a water bottle), to which ammunition (hereby known as water) she adds a certain measure of vinegar.  

Yes – VINEGAR, and boy is it pungent! 

It is this deadly weapon with which I have been shot.

It is insufficient to say that I was surprised, and now I am going to croak just because I was trying [honest!] to teach that rug rat how to behave himself. Well, that’s it – my teaching days are over! 

Mosby can just fend for himself. Call me a coward but I simply do not think teaching someone manners is worth getting shot over. I am off to live my last few minutes in bed where hopefully I can get a good last nap.

And Mummy is most assuredly out of the will. 

If I can just locate the number of my lawyer….

Mummy’s Murderous Mind

Some have labeled me a bit paranoid – 

Dad, Mummy, Aspen, Poppet, Nutmeg, Princess, Tippy, and Nobbie,  to name but a few foul blisters. However, I have much reason to believe Mummy is out to get me at times so I am ever prepared to make a break for it, often dashing off just in the nick of time when my suspicions are aroused by her unseemly behavior. Outlined below are some examples of the obvious attempts she makes on my life, and one can readily see on reflection the evil intentions of one Mummy:

Ex.1 - Mummy walks across the floor in my direction sometimes, very fast.

Ex.2 - Mummy picks up a dish towel and pretends to dry dishes (like no one can see through that one!)

Ex. 3 - Mummy polishes the furniture with *gulp* a rag - while I am in the same room!

Ex. 4 - Mummy tries to kiss me on my noggin. Oh, dear!

Ex. 5 - Mummy tries to “pet” me [code for “Murder”].

Ex. 6 - Mummy opens the pantry door when I am sitting nearby, very fast. [Does she think I am blind?]

Ex. 7 – Mummy walks up the stairs when I am lounging on them (she thinks I don’t notice but do I ever see through her subterfuges!).

This is to name but a few of the varied ways in which Mummy Dearest is whittling away at my 9 lives. When I see any of these not-so-well-hidden activities occur I head for the hills. Of course, sometimes these are genuine maneuvers to accomplish some other goal (Mummy does indeed polish the furniture sometimes, for example, and she sometimes pets me just to be nice (as much as a serial cat killer can be nice, I should say…) but it takes a discerning mind to note the difference and be prepared for action. 

Whichever it turns out to be on a given day, Mummy is not going to pull a fast one on me – not if I have anything to say about it!

I will be ready!

Hmmph.

Mummy, Nobbled!

Poor little Mummy is hopping about on one foot today, 

all that is left of her after a vicious attack by a brute of a kitten named Mosby!

There she was in the living room, minding her own business while reading a nice book, her feet dangling over the back of the sofa [which sits conveniently - for a certain kitten - about 6 inches from the wall…], when from nowhere (or rather, from behind the sofa) came terrific sounds of scuffling – irrefutable evidence of the presence of fuzzy little blighters in pursuit of a brawl. 

I happened to be resting along the back of said sofa, thinking of this and that, so got a bird’s eye view of the proceedings. After much tornado-like activity between Morgan and Mosby, the latter decided the sofa needed a lesson in manners as well and began snatching and scratching at the slipcover.

It appeared, from my vantage point, that Mosby mistook Mummy’s foot for an appendage of the sofa (an arm, perhaps, or a pillow?) so gave it a triple-clawed swipe for good measure then went on his merry way.

Mummy yowled not a little, Mosby giving her a questioning glance as he passed from view ‘round the corner. The vile wretch hadn’t a clue about the destruction left in his wake!

So now Mummy is wounded and may not last the night, and we will starve because I am sure Dad does not know how to feed us properly – all because Mosby can’t tell the difference between a sofa arm and Mummy's toes!

Tip Of The Day

cCcRaSsH!

*scamper, scamper, scamper*

Never [wheeze],

ever [wheeze, wheeze]…

tip-toe through the tulips [wheeze]…

if they are in a vase!

*SiGh*

Earth-ShAtTeriNg News

You’re Doing What???

Are you mad?

Kittens? Living here?

We can’t have kittens - they turn into cats!

We already have cats.

When Mummy broke the news that two young blisters of the deck variety were coming to live with us, I rued the day I ever spotted her playing with them out there. I might have known she would pull a sneaky like this. In broad daylight, too!

And Dad had the audacity to be at work at a time like this, the Hound. I tried to warn him that Mummy was up to something but he seems blissfully unaware of her schemes. One might say willfully…

Well, that is it then.

All my hopes of having a quiet future are dashed. And now I must settle into the task of training these little urchins and teaching them the house rules. What a chore.

I think I need a nap.

Project Litter Pan

Change is not something I take lightly. 

I have grown quite accustomed to things in their proper places around here, left untouched until the end of time. Take litter boxes, for example – ours have always been just fine as they sit. They may be different colors, heights and overall dimensions but they serve their purpose, and when something ain’t broke….

Yet Mummy [whom one could easily label Obsessive] suddenly determined that they need to match – color, height and overall dimension. Uniformity – that is the code word of the day for her! Only she didn’t consult with us kitties before taking action on her plan, and as a result, we went into panic mode this afternoon.

We might have been suspicious when Mummy returned from the store with all new pans, only we were under the mistaken impression that these were just a fun place to sit, a nifty assortment of new toy boxes into which we all gathered with our mice and tussled together, carefree, as it were. What fun it was to jump from one shiny new bin to another! How much fun had we, tossing our bouncy balls across the chasms!

 Before long, we noticed Mummy fussing about with our litter boxes – nothing strange about that, except she had already cleaned them this morning. Now what was she up to, we asked ourselves? Did someone, er, mess them up again? Probably Poppet! No, he denies it. Curious, we edged closer to the activity and saw Mummy stacking the boxes up. Very odd, indeed! What, we asked, were we to do if we needed to go? Of course, we tried to be understanding, reasoning amongst ourselves that perhaps Mummy was going to just clean up the floor a bit then put the litter pans back in their rightful places. It sounded reasonable enough but Nutmeg had to chime in with the observation that Mummy was now taking the old bins outside. 

Outside?! 

We can’t go potty OUTSIDE! We are civilized cats!

Well, I am anyway.

We gazed in the direction of the now empty mat, noting with sadness that a tiny sprinkling of litter from someone’s last potty foray was all that remained of our beloved latrines and would be insufficient to, er, cover the situation, if I make my meaning clear. Suddenly I felt the urge to go really bad. After scouting for options, I spied the new pans and stepped into one out of desperation, at that moment making a faint connection between the two disparate points. 

But, alas, no litter! Whatever would we do?

Mummy returned to the scene of her crime, finished cleaning, dumped me from the sleek new pan in which I stood then gathered the new white pans and carried them to The Place Where The Old Bins Once Stood. (May they rest in peace.)

 Arranging all three in a neat little row, she poured fresh litter into each one then topped it off with a dousing of that wonderful Arm & Hammer Pet Fresh stuff which keeps our boxes smelling so nice.

 Now that was a little more like it!

Excited at the prospect of all that new litter, I jumped in and proceeded to scritch and scratch and toss and scatter to my little heart’s content. Others joined in the fray, and we had a grand ol’ time, clean forgetting about the old…
er, what was I talking about?  

Gone Fishin’

In case Mummy inquires as to why there is water all over the floor surrounding the toilet in the guest bath, anyone who sees her can let her know that a certain well-intentioned fellow wearing a grey coat sort of accidentally dropped his mouse into the bowl and had to retrieve it.

It was not easy.

She will be pleased to know as well, I am sure, that the mouse is in excellent health and recuperating nicely on the bedroom rug. Augustus, er, that is, the Fellow With The Grey Coat, is a bit soaked but otherwise unharmed. One can also tell Mummy there is no need to search for the grey-cloaked guy as he is nowhere she has ever heard of and unlikely to be seen again this century.

Or at least until dinner…

Thanks for your help, whoever deigns to intervene, er, explain!