Radical Change

 

One simply will not believe what has recently occurred in the old household.

Mummy has removed – yes, absolutely done away with – my favorite chair by the window! 

This is the chair in which Augustus has sat for years, staring unabashedly at birds, butterflies, cats, and last but not least, the ivy bed from whence many a pleasurable moment of meditation has arisen. From this very spot I have diligently kept a vigil for the occasional burglar, should one arrive.  And now, for some reason inexplicable, Mummy has seen fit to rid the home of said wooden chair and replace it with - get this - a soft, tufted linen storage trunk job topped with fluffy down pillows.

She calls it a Window Seat.

A seat is a seat, say I!

What on earth was she thinking? There aren’t even any arms over which to drape when one snoozes (even we stalwart types must take the occasional refreshing break from vigils). I suppose one is expected to simply settle comfortably onto this cushioned thingamajig and lounge about. What happened to diligence? I guess that is out the window, along with the birds and things.

Besides all the other amenities now vacant (raised back for resting one’s chin, for instance, or a ribbed seat for massaging one’s toes, etc), if one examines closely the photo below, one may observe something else distinctly missing, viz. one Augustus. That is correct: since installation of said overgrown box, poor li’l Gussie has not had opportunity to enjoy…er…use the new post because it is now overridden with cats!

I ask, does one see my handsome face anywhere? In case anyone is wondering, the answer is no. That impertinent squirt seen in the image is Young Mosby, AKA The Snoot, looking as if he owns the joint.

Perhaps I will make an attempt at some later date to reestablish my lookout point, begrudgingly using the overgrown Seat until I can speak to the management about these unnecessary changes.

Those fluffy pillows are bound to become a distraction.

Hmpph!

Blockade!

You will hardly believe this but Mummy has barred my entrance to beneath the bathub!

Everyone knows it is my retreat, my safety zone, me hiding-place-for-when-Mummy-is-shouting-my-name. 

Yet today she placed a piece of wood over the opening under the window seat and nailed it into place. 

I am aghast! 

I am astounded!

Where will I go when somebody has broken a glass, and I mysteriously get blamed?

What will I do when relatives come? 

What was she thinking?

She claims it is because she is afraid that in the event of an emergency she would not be able to get me out of there.

You’re darn right! 

That is the whole point, Mumster!

But Gussie, says she, what if the house caught on fire?

It would be your fault! Said I, and gave her a pouty look.

It is for your own good, she simpered.

Ha! Said I, and I meant it to sting.

The Tunnel and The Broken Glass

It is the midnight hour, when one awakens from a refreshing sleep to find the rest of the world still snoozing. All is quiet. Stretching, therefore, and rising from my cozy niche in the bed, I bounce to the floor and prepare to saunter about the dimly lit surroundings, checking the place out for burglars or the occasional dust bunny out of place.

After inspecting a pink mouse then grazing for a few minutes in the crunchy bowl, my thoughts turn to adventure. Wouldn’t it be swell, say I, to discover something fun to do while no one else is around to interrupt? And finding myself in the dining room, I spy The Tunnel.

This tunnel is a longish, open-ended job with a nifty center window just right for espying the enemy on the trail. The premise is to start at one end, wiggle your way through, then come out the other fully prepared for whatever you might encounter, be it a ball, mouse, or even another cat. The downside, as one will later note, is that this tunnel makes the most horrific crackling sound; in short, you cannot sneak up on anyone in The Tunnel.

At this moment, however, I am prepared to endure the noisy bit for the sake of sheer entertainment so in I dive, squiggling and turning, discovering a leftover bouncy ball and an errant feather along the path. Scrabbling at the feather, I roll the tunnel over on its side, causing my head to loll out the center opening and find itself confronted by an obstacle. Strange, I say to myself, that wall was not there when I started. Self ignores me so I pop back into the tunnel to continue the journey. 

Rolling and twisting, attacking the ball with claws and teeth, I see that somehow I have managed to turn around in the tunnel so must right the circumstance. Backing up rapidly in a vain attempt to exit head first, the tunnel slides and skips over the stone tiles, all the while making the most deafening crackling row so that I immediately grow conscious the Mumster (whom I left sleeping soundly only a few minutes before) might hear. 

And within the space of about a millisecond there occurred 3 unmistakable sounds: to wit, the thud of my rear end against a solid surface, the tinkling crash of glass, and a sleepy but assertive question (something about, “What the blazes is going on in there?”). 

That is all I need to hear. 

I am off like a streak upstairs where I am content to confine myself to a dank corner until Mummy leaves for work, the new sound of agitated sweeping a firm reminder that it might have been better to stay in the toasty bed.

Yet a cat has to have an adventure once in while, say I. 

So off I drift into fitful slumber, drowning out the mutterings and rantings with pleasant thoughts of my latest adventure. 

What, I wonder, will I get into next? 

Just you wait and see!

My New ‘Do

I have been styled!

This morning I was in the Grande Bathing Room (the one that houses the infamous bathtub beneath which I have been known to find respite from pursuing Mummy’s bent on vengeance for the odd broken something or other), watching Mummy work on her maniacal hair. I say maniacal for her hair is something to behold, not unlike mine - a bit wild with a mind of its own (one may recall the Mat Incident last year when, as a result of much trimming on the part of Mummy, Dad bestowed upon me the telling sobriquet “Buzz”). Mummy’s hair, therefore, must be tamed! And to do so apparently requires the combined effort of a couple of hot irons and a vast array of creams, gels, lotions and sprays, not to mention several minutes of beneath-the-breath grumbling, some words of which may not be suitable for mixed audiences (I merely mention it).

It is the last item on the list of potions which worked its magic on me this lovely morning as I gazed upward through the flailing arms and blowing tresses. Content to stare listlessly while Mummy worked, I was caught unawares by a hissing noise immediately followed by a fall out of some cold, sticky substance. It landed on my nose and made me sneeze. Mummy said she was sorry then tried to fluff my fur but it stuck out and remained. I adjusted my position, not fully realizing the extent of the damage, then caught a glimpse of my coat in the mirror. What a mess! And the more Mummy tried to relieve me of the veil of niffiness, the more my fur stood out. The worst of it was Mummy had to leave so was unable to do anything by way of rectifying her fell deed for the nonce.

So now I am mucking about the place looking like a lion whose mane has come unhinged. I did make a feeble attempt at cleaning my fur but it did not taste very nice; the realization that it could wait until Mummy gets home settled over me like a contented fog. Glancing one last time in the mirror, I see that it isn’t so bad after all. Indeed, it does not hurt to change up one’s look every now and then – it keeps others guessing what you are up to! One simply must remember to return things to store after the novelty wears off. 

Or, as in this case, the hairspray.