...Er, um, Hello!

My name is Augustus. I have parents. Sometimes life can be difficult. I possess the great skill of being able to charm the socks off of anyone who chances to spot me, a rare occurrence indeed. [The spotting, that is; not the charming!]
However, for you, Dear Reader, I am prepared to divulge my deepest thoughts and perspective of the world, mostly because if I don't tell somebody what is going on around here, I am going to pop!
But be warned, proceed with caution: Living with Mummy and Dad can be rather harrowing at times...

Thursday, February 16, 2012

Oh, No - Not Again!!!

It finally came – the dreaded DOCTOR VISIT DAY. Last week Mummy says, “Gussie! You got a nice postcard from Vet, reminding you of your appointment. Wasn't that thoughtful of him?” or something silly like that.  It didn’t really click with me what she was talking about until this morning.
Picture it:
An innocent little kitten (me!) enjoying a nice snack at the Breakfast Buffet, oblivious to the world around him, reveling in the rich flavors and subtle nuances of ‘Country Chicken and Tuna Dinner…er, Breakfast… in Gravy’. Nary a care in the world, I tell you, when in comes that box lugging Mummy behind (you know, the one with prison bars at one end??).  I looked up, glanced at the box briefly with a passing thought that some poor soul is for it today, then returned to my grazing, hardly knowing that poor soul was Li’l Ol’ ME!
The box is placed on the floor, the prison bars swung open. Out wafts that ugly, musty smell from the garage – uggh. Dad places a fluffy towel in the box and looks at Mummy who in turn looks…at…yours truly.  So that was it – the postcard, that box, the ogling leers and ominous hands reaching toward me, the pitiful attempts at whispers of affection…all earmarked for me! My eyes widened; I protested that this was all a huge mistake, the postcard was sent to the wrong address, I’m allergic to Vet...!
Staring out from my cell at the bleak and odiferous surroundings, I contemplate my fate.  I don't like Vet. He pokes me with needles and takes my temperature in, well, strange places.  And he gapes at my teeth then turns to the subject of weight with Mummy, which leads to her rants about my "muffin-top theft", among other petty violations (note the use of the word “petty” – my adjective, not hers).  She has no sense of discretion, the poor woman. It’s sad, really.
Mummy hands me over like a bag of chocolate chip cookies. Vet pokes and pinches then tosses me onto the scales…what was that? I gained a pound? There must be some mistake; I demand a recount! I know – it was the can of country chicken and tuna whatsit I ate just before being abducted! Did I say can? I meant ‘meager portion’...oooh, not the needle! Did I mention Mummy poisoned me recently???...
Back at home, moping in my chair by the window and feeling wounded (that shot left a tender lump under my skin – ouch!), I ponder the horrific events of the day and cannot help but wonder how Mummy lives with herself, how she sleeps at night.  And then I am thinking, she WON’T sleep this night, ‘cause I am going to make sure of it! I will stay up the whole time, make as much noise as possible, eat as many muffin tops as I can find, tear into the chips and crackers; why, I might even have a go at the cookie jar! An extra pound, forsooth! I’ll show her. But I am so sleepy now. Maybe I will just take a little nap then plan some more in the morning.
What a day… Zzzzzzzzzz.

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