Decimation of a Houseplant

There was a plant. No one was around. I was in fine fettle, feeling a bit roguish and kittenly (is that a word?). The plant stood a few feet tall in a wicker basket, straight stalks and leaves reaching ever upward to the ceiling (it had a long way to go, too, ‘cause that ceiling is 22 feet up there!). As previously mentioned, I was full of vim and stuff so could not resist scuttering about the plant, nipping at a leaf here, scratching at the basket there. Then - I am certain - the plant let fall a derogatory comment about my appearance.

I stopped and stared. I gave it a narrow-eyed look. This was the moment I had been waiting for - squatting on my haunches, I made the great leap and landed *SPLAT* in the middle of The Plant, looking neither to the left nor to the right but ever onward in my quest to avenge evil. I sat, I dug, I pawed, bit and scratched. Turning this way and that, I gave every leaf in view a cuff ‘round the ears and made it wilt! Finally, seeing that the plant had backed down and would no longer be in the mood to call names, I hopped down and biffed off to another room for a rest. I had no need to look back - what’s done is done; let the past bury the dead, say I. Besides, Mummy was out so would have no evidence I was even there. All was right with the world…