Pleasant Surprises.

The most extraordinary thing happened to me yesterday. As you know, I'm rather lenient with my human subjects, but every now and again, because of their lax and inattentive attitudes, I'm forced to assert my authority. Yesterday, or so I thought, was going to be one such day.

On Wednesday, I had nothing but trouble. My human refused to feed me early, even after my purrsistent demands, she refused to open the basement door for me, knowing very well that I have a devil of a time doing it on my own, and she staunchly defied me when I told her it was time for bed. In a nutshell, she acted like a purrfectly insubordinate rebel. She gets like that sometimes, laboring under this fantastical assumption that she is the owner and I am the pet. I was right well fed up with it by Thursday; and I had the mind to let her have it properly on the matter, but something, that extraordinary thing to which I'd alluded earlier, knocked the wrath straight from my whiskers.

I suppose she must have realized that I was a bit miffed at her, and fearing the old iron paw in the velvet glove scheme, she decided to soften my rather pointy disposition. Honestly, I didn't even believe it could be done, but when she opened the freezer and pulled out that bag of fresh frozen cat mint leaves, a stash I admit I didn't know existed, I couldn't recall what it was I wanted to have words with her about.

I looked at the icy mass of delicious, green foliage as it dropped, or rather splatted, onto the rug before me. I didn't even have to ask for it! It was just there! A lovely, glistening, lump of instant happiness, and all the sudden, my black troubles vanished from before my very eyes! Everything was dead rats and rainbows, and life was wonderful again! My human was the picture of a purrfect pet! Who could ever ask for a better winter day: warm rugs, fresh, albeit cold, cat mint, and not a care in the clouds!

I must confess, I was stunned. There wasn't any warning for this random act of kindness. All these years of training must've impressed upon her how awful she had been. She must have known that the horrible time she'd given me the night before had curled my whiskers and turned them white. She was aware of her error and sought atonement for such. And, I being a merciful and loving dictator, am inclined to forgive. Yes, as long as she opens that freezer door at my bidding from this day forward, I shall never hold her shortcomings against her. In fact, I'm feeling a bit peckish at the moment; purrhaps I'll go have a word with her now.

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

To The D*gs!

As a cat I've never had much patience for d*gs. I mean, on occasion one meets the rare mongrel that is, at the absolute most, tolerable, but for the most part, they're all rubbish-chewing yappers with zero by way of intellect. At my current address, however, it's not necessarily the d*gs who are the problem; it's their owners.

At what point did it become fashionable for someone to harbor an animal that they can't stand? Why the devil would anyone in his right mind keep a creature for whom they could care less? I realize that I keep a human or two, but I take care of them, don't I? I don't toss them out in the rain, sleet, or snow just because they make a bit of a mess on the carpet, or because they talk too much, but I swear that's what some of these humans are doing with their d*gs. At all hours I hear barking. It's as bad as a ticket queue outside a convention hall that has mistakenly billed the International Fire-Plug Manufacturers' Annual Conference for the same date as the AKC Championship D*g Show. Whether it's one o'clock in the afternoon or one o'clock in the morning, it makes no difference to these people. They toss them out on their ridiculously floppy ears to bark their fool heads off! It curls my tail!

Mind you, I'm not just spouting off at the whiskers. I've handled the situation with considerable patience, but there's only so much a cat can take. I've tried everything. I've burrowed under the covers; I've burrowed beneath the spare pillows in the closet; I've stolen my human's earplugs; though I must admit I couldn't figure out how to get them in properly, so I had a bit of a bat about with them instead. I've even called the local butchery and asked if they could deliver 32 soup bones, each to a different address, in hopes that this would give the rottenweilers something to stop up their festering gobs. Unfortunately, even with all of the monies I've made from advertising and eBay, I couldn't afford the price of delivery. (Curse the cost of wretched resources! How hard can it be to renew the petroleum fields? What with all the species going extinct under man's domination, one might well wonder why the cost of petrol hasn't dropped!)

I suppose it's no worse than anywhere else in the world. It's the inevitability of living in a city: Sooner or later someone will get the bright idea to buy a puppy, forgetting that they do eventually grow into d*gs. That d*g gets tossed out, he starts to howl, the neighbor's mutt follows, and next thing you know, it's the Moron Terrier Cackle Choir doing their rendition of the Hallelujah Chorus in B (for bark) major up and down the street.

I suppose rather than whinging about my personal lot, I ought to buck it up and try a bit harder. Purrhaps I could learn to operate the CD player. I'll bet a set of headphones would be far easier to master than those earplugs, and if not, there's a nice wiggly cord I could play with.

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

More Misgivings.

Why is it that every time a feline has a busy day coming up, the train won't stop running through their back garden? I'm not certain if it has anything to do with it being winter, what with the bare trees and all, but the trains have got louder and louder over the past month or so. Furthermore, as if the vibration from the train itself isn't bad enough, it's being driven by a bitterly contemptible old ass, who refuses to lay off the air horn for more than one or two brief intervals throughout his passage. What this all amounts to is a kitty with a considerably irritable disposition. Not to mention the nasty attitude being displayed by my not-so happy human.

I've contemplated writing someone about it. You know the sort of thing:

• "Dear Sirs,
  
  I regret to inform you that your conductors are complete morons with absolutely zero respect regarding sleeping felines. I suggest you fire the lot, scrap your loud, obnoxious, earth-rattling contraptions into a tip somewhere, and then go boil your heads until the fat within melts, thus allowing your brain to think again.
  
  I hope you all choke on your bacon.
  
  Yours Purringly,
  Etc. etc…."

I can't see that it would make much of a difference, though. I mean, who the devil would I write? The city needs the commerce, so they're unlikely to listen. The corporations need the transport, so they certainly won't listen. And let's face it, the train conglomerates don't care and would rather tie you to the tracks and saw you asunder before so much as contemplating what might be found within your letter.

It seems to me that moving is an increasingly pleasing idea. If nothing else, it'll get me away from the noise of the city. Then, I suppose it may just be me getting old. As a kitten, I loved noise. I reveled in it. In fact, I took any and every opportunity to create a ruckus. Now, however, I'm nine, soon to be ten, and I won't go into what that may be in human years. Suffice it to say, I want some peace. A nice long stretch of quiet would suit me fine right about now.

Well, I suppose I'll have to put off all of those things I had planned to do tomorrow. While my human is away, instead of eating the houseplants and licking myself on her pillow, I'll have to tuck in for a kip beneath her blankets. Purrhaps I'll get a few hours of decent sleep. It seems that the only time I can manage it anymore is right around one in the afternoon, and she shouldn't be back until around seven.

No one ever said it was easy being feline, and if they had, I'd call them a liar.

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

Moving Misgivings.

I would like to preface this with an apology, for it is a day late. It's not normal for me to eat that much cat mint, and I woke up with a bit of a spinner. Once you read the article, I'm sure you'll forgive the incident.

As some of my more regular readers, especially those with excellent memories, might recall, my self-proclaimed owner and her family have been attempting to sell their house. This isn't a particularly pleasing thought to me, as I hate the idea of being upheaved and replanted in an unfamiliar place. I know, things could be better, but they could also be worse. That happens sometimes, things getting worse, and I'm by no means a fan of it. So, imagine my dismay when I found they have indeed sold the house. Well, when I say sold I mean they've had an acceptable offer. Nevertheless, it's opened up a can of worms that we of the feline purrsuasion would rather leave tightly sealed for dropping from high windows onto unsuspecting d*gs below.

I guess what I most dislike is the boxing of things. All those boxes and papers and chaos and mayhem. Well, I'm not actually opposed to the mayhem bit, but you get the picture. I mean, what happens if in all the fuss, I get picked up, wrapped up, and boxed up only to be discovered dead three years later in a parcel labelled Moo-moos and tartan golf hats. Face it, the level of human competence suggests the possibility of feline mislabeling, and I'm not too pleased with the prospect. Who would ever open a box marked Moo-moos and tartan golf hats? I suppose Arnold Palmer might be curious, or purrhaps someone not quite as famous who appreciates moo-moos or golf-hats. Still, the likelihood of that box being opened anytime before 2010 isn't encouraging.

So what if I don't get mislabeled? What then? I get crated and unceremoniously placed into room, devoid of comfy chairs, beds, chaise lounges, or even the merest ottoman upon which a cat may rest his weary, transport-worn paws. Not a thing. Just me, a water dish, a temporary litter tray, four walls, possibly five if it's one of those strange houses with the funny shaped rooms, and a hard floor upon which to pace. The only plus side I see is that the bare walls, especially if there are five of them, will amplify and echo my yelping demands for release.

I guess when all is said and done, I'm simply not at all pleased with the situation. I'm sure a nice country setting will be all good and fine, but why can't it all be ready for me? I'm not asking much. It could be done. Just go out and buy all identical things to those which currently reside in my favorite room, shut me in there until the corresponding room is appropriately decorated (a lot of kibble and a few people peeling grapes and fanning me to keep me calm couldn't hurt), and when it's finished, transport me by teleporter into the new room. Then, once the rest of the house is finished, all they'd have to do is open the door. Not too much to ask at all. Very reasonable to my mind, in fact.

It just goes to show that humans are completely impractical. If they want to move, they jam things in boxes and threaten to lose their feline companions in cartons of obsolete skin covering. If it were left to feline planning, things would be much easier.

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

A Tail of Mostly Woe.

I'm afraid that I've not been feeling well lately. It started some time ago, as you'll recall, and I fear I've never fully recovered. I've been moody and lethargic to the point of nastiness, and my activity in the realm of the baser functions hasn't been too, shall I say, regular. Because of these abnormalities, which I've tried to conceal, my self-proclaimed owner decided that I should go back to the v*t. Oddly, I didn't go to the place, where the two-legged cat hobbles around, shouting slurs and fork-tongued wiener d*gs leer at one with the hairy eyeball. No, this place was quite different and rather beyond a quick description. Therefore, I shall provide you the details in due course.

The day was as mundane and boring as ever. My human toiled over her enormous giraffe, cursing the thing with distain (an increasingly typical scenario in our place) while I sprawled myself out upon the floor, curling my feet in hopes of attracting some attention. I didn't get any, but I was a little too sluggish to physically harass her, so instead I decided to go to sleep right then and there. I might add that her failing to feed me supper may have had something to do with my weakened state, but she insisted that I create a stink in the bin before she'd feed me. I admit, I tried a couple of times, but the tum just wasn't agreeable. That's when she got vicious. "Either go in the box or you'll go to the v*t!" she said to me, as though production of bodily waste was a hobby I'd simply gone off at the moment and could pick back up at any time desired. Still, I didn't wish to go to the v*t, so again I tried; and again I failed.

It was ghastly. In and out of the bin, trying to perform and being unable. I must admit, for a brief moment, I thought going to the v*t wouldn't be a bad idea, but I soon gained my senses. The v*t is typically ineffective; and the last time I went they gave me these nasty pills that made me more ill than before I'd gone, and if you'll recall, I had never fully recovered. Yes, to my mind the whole idea was right out! To my human's mind, however, it was right on, and before I realised what had happened, two of them were on me strapping me about with the evil harness, and attempting to press me into that malignant carrier.

I puffed myself up to three times the cat, all claws and teeth in a twisting mass of hair and hisses! Throaty growls projected from within, and I kicked at the sack with all four paws. Alas, there were two of them and only one of me. I was defeated, deflated, and, before long, zipped in and clamped shut. Next the pair carried me off to the great, white, gurgling whale they call "Truck", where they lashed me to the seat with a thin, though completely indestructible, strap. That's when the cruel reality struck me: I was going to the v*t.

The ride seemed to take forever, and we weren't going in the same direction as before. I know this, because my wristwatch has a built in compass that I have consulted on previous excursions. We were definitely not going east; we were going south, and the v*t is usually east. For a time this had me fooled. I deluded myself with the idea that there must have been a grand opening at some new pet store, to which they were taking me. Yes, I started believing that all this v*t nonsense was just nonsense, and that they were really covering up so I would be pleasantly surprised as I enjoyed the wonderful bliss of an isle completely devoted to gourmet cat mints.

As I mentioned, I was deluding myself. We did, in fact, arrive at a v*t's office, just not the v*t's office. Regardless, one v*t is very much like another as far as I'm concerned, and I still resented being there.

I must confess that the experience was not precisely the same. Indeed, it varied greatly from the suburban, main street gig that I'd gone to for the past several years. This place was in a rather ruralish setting, and I smelled the distinct aroma of unkilled beef lingering in the air. This farmish atmosphere made me nervous. I've heard that some ignorant humans will dump felines at farms when they don't know how to deal with them. I also know that I do go on a bit at times, and I can be rather the personified harassment. All this being said, you can imagine the left-pawed relief I found when we entered the establishment to find that it was, indeed, a v*t and not an unwanted feline depository.

It wasn't quite like any v*t's I'd been to before. It was rather drab and time worn, with benches that looked like they'd been pilfered from the booths of one of those family dining adverts one sees on television. Not a chair to be seen. It didn't much matter, though, because there was no one in there, and I was taken immediately into the torture chamber.

The v*t himself was a portly, jovial man with large, meaty hands and a hammy disposition. Everything about him suggested that he had a penchant for the beef; but so do I, so I didn't pass judgement. I must say he was rather intimidating, and for as much as I hate that infernal carrier, I was even less inclined to come out than I was inclined to enter. Of course, the tactics one uses when trying to stay out of the bag are quite different from those used when trying to stay in, so there I was, curled into the tightest ball I could manage, when those great, chubby digits reached in and snagged me out.

He was all business: pry open the jaws have a look inside, then turn over and start pressing on the belly. I'm not sure why v*ts do that. It's one of the reasons I so dislike going. They always want to fondle the area that ails me. This fellow was no different. And there's such a lack of privacy! Here he is, palpating my spleen, or whatever bit it was, talking about my poo and calling me fat! Fat! HA! I'm nearly skin and bones!

A short conversation ensued regarding the food I eat and some kind of foul-looking medicine he wished me to take, and almost as soon as we'd arrived, I was placed back in the sack (needless to say, I was much more cooperative this time round) and walked out to that monstrous, gurgling beast which I was surprisingly grateful to see.

Upon arriving home I was set loose and allowed to get stuck in a bit before they, again, ganged up on me; this time to force feed me that wicked brew prescribed by the v*t. To say it was revolting would be too kind. It was beyond revolting; it was the sort of stuff that gives you such violent gags that your eyes to pop out like the chin bag of a toad who over-extends himself and gets a blow out. Suffice to say, it was beyond wretched, it was retching!

I know I keep going on about all the bad bits; so in conclusion, I might tell you that whatever that ghastly stuff was, it worked, and I do feel quite a bit better. Not only that, but the v*t did manage to convince my self-proclaimed owner to choose a new food for me, and the food she chose is possibly the finest kibble I've ever eaten. I dare not say that I'm appreciative of the v*t, but I'm at least not as unappreciative of him as I was. If I should ever become ill again, I hope we will consult with him on the matter.

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