Real-estate Restlessness

As a rule, we felines dislike change. This aversion is one of the few commonalities shared by humanity and felinity. Nevertheless, change happens, and those who contribute to it couldn't care less about those of us who are adversely affected. Whether it's two mean, overly bloated corporations merging into one gigantic, top-fermenting profit vacuum, or a flat full of drunken, drug addicted hooligans who have somehow scraped enough pennies together to move to your block, change is coming, and whether you like it or not, you'll eventually be its victim.

I can purrsonally attest to the inevitability of change. Recently, my so-called owners had decided to succumb to the pressure wrought by the swelling stupidity of the local neighborhood yahoos. They're selling their house. Of course, this means that they're selling my house, since I am the one in charge. It's an act of flagrant insubordination; they never even consulted with me. This is why I've decided to make the best of the situation, and use it's peculiar circumstances to my benefit.

As my more frequent readers know, I am all about escaping from prison. Mind you, I don't actually want to completely escape. After all, if I were to get away for good, who'd feed me and play mouse on a stick with me? No, I just like to get out and have run of the world for just a little while. The up side to this moving thing is that I have the actual ability to take off whenever a stupid man or an even stupider kid wanders into my part of the house without the supervision of a realtor. They never see it coming. They open the door and I sneak out while their backs are turned. This gives me the freedom to bite each forbidden plant at least twice before I'm caught and tossed back in prison.

Another interesting fact I've learnt is that kids are extremely sympathetic to a hungry kitty. Pull the hungry kitty act on a ten-year-old girl, and Bob's your uncle! Not just a scoop of food, no! A full dish! Sometimes the hungry kitty act doesn't work. This is usually with ten-year-old boys and men. Then I have to resort to taking the women hostage for ransom. So far this ploy has worked well. A few shrieks, a few squeals, and before long the fellahs are slipping fistfuls of treats under the door in exchange for their ladies.

I must admit, I fear my play days are up. My self-proclaimed owner recently posted a warning letter on our flat door. It sort of softens my teeth to the people. It reads as follows:

• **CAT ALERT!**
  Please, keep this door tightly closed, as Mr. Fleez enjoys making escape attempts. To date he has successfully escaped 1,678 times, usually twice on laundry days.
  
  Please, do not touch Mr. Fleez, as he is not at all hesitant to bite if he suspects you might taste good.
  
  Please, do not feed Mr. Fleez regardless of what he tells you. He is an imperturbable liar who will stop at nothing to snark an extra meal.
  
  If Mr. Fleez threatens to take you hostage for ransom, lock his lippy hinder in the bathroom. That'll teach him.
  
  Thank You,
  Azy.

Why must humans interfere with a feline's fun? It hardly seems fair to me. Nevertheless, I've got work to do. I must figure out a way to undermine this letter so that I can continue reaping the rewards associated with prospective buyer house showings. There must be a way to replace that letter with one of my own, and if there is, by Jove, I'll find it!

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)