Treason!

The other night, I noticed that the humans had unpacked a small cage and left it in the front hall. I immediately recognized this as the torturous apparatus that was used to transport me here from New York: the old blanket inside, laced with dried catnip was a dead give away. The female put some fresh nip on the blanket inside, which I enjoyed, but I was still suspicious.

My suspicions proved founded, the next day, when the female tried to tempt me into the box with more catnip, and even my Achilles' Heel: cold cuts! Still, I am no fool. I could tell she was up to something, clever little wench, and I was right. When trickery didn't work, she tried brute force. Well, I can tell you, the traitorous, disloyal little fool felt the sting of my claws for her trouble! I am not a number, I am a free cat! I heard her calling the male at his daytime location, presumably asking for advice. I was sure the he was loyal to me, and disapproved of such behaviour. Still, she tried a few more times, before giving up, or so I was meant to believe.

Later that night, the male returned, and the humans had their evening meal, just as they always do. Afterwards, the male picked me up and scratched my ears, as he is wont to do. Before I knew what was happening, he had slipped me into the cage, locking it tight! "Treason!" "Blasphemy!" I called out, to no avail. "Am I not the Lord your Cat?!" My mind was racing with the possibilities: am I being returned to that suburban hell-hole Long Island? Have they gone over to the Russians, and are turning me in for a bounty?

The humans walked me out of the building, and across a noisy street; cold wind and stinging rain piercing the cage. Very shortly, they had me in another building, filled with pictures of cats and dogs: other victims, no doubt. I was locked in a little room with the two treacherous humans. They tried to soothe me, but I was having none of it. I sniffed around a bit, taking in the scents of a hundred of my cat brethren who had been here before me. What kind of place was this? Was I in Guantanamo Bay? Syria?

Shortly, a woman entered the room wearing medical clothes and a lab coat. She had a thick Slavic accent. So that was it: I had been shipped off to one of the Eastern European interrogation locations for medical testing! The doctor used treats in an attempt to lure me out of my secure location under the table. I feigned interest, all the while eyeing the door left slightly ajar. Unfortunately, my scheme was spotted, and I found myself on the examining table.

The doctor gave me teeth a cursory check, and then the male helped pin me to the table while the doctor violated me with a metal probe! Someone is sure to pay for this insult! The doctor then took me to another room, where I was stabbed a few more times, before returning me to the humans. They shoved me back in the cage, and soon I was returned to our familiar apartment, still groggy from the experience.

In hindsight, it seems as though I was part of some sort of medical examination. I am still not pleased. I lead the humans to believe that I have forgotten all about it, but have forgotten nothing!

Cold Weather Makes Me Crazy.

Lately, I have been more restless and irritable than usual. I can feel the cold in the air, and it makes me crazy. I will catch a scent of impending winter on the winds, and run around the apartment squawking, or hide in my sanctum sanctorum at the back of the closet. I perch atop the refrigerator, just above the height of the male slave, so I can direct orders at him and head-butt him for ignoring said orders. Still, it is all for nought. The humans steadfastly refuse to make the weather warmer. I don't understand it.

The other night, I knew it was getting worse. The male was doing something out on the porch, and left the door open. I decided to go out for a sniff. Three times I went out on the porch, and three times I was assailed by icy winds, retreating to the warmth of the apartment, to run around in a frenzied attempt to banish the cold from my fur.

Yesterday morning, my fears were realized: I saw the white stuff fall from the sky which the humans call "snow"; that horrible white material that collects on the ground and makes my paws wet and freezing. I hate it. I am told that some humans actually enjoy frolicking in snow. They will run around in it, balling it up to toss at each other, make totem statues out of it, etc. Filthy, stupid creatures, these humans.

Last night, the humans erected a small fake tree in the apartment, garnishing it with lights and trinkets. Last year, just as the winds of winter were beginning to blow, they put up this same garish apparatus. It was there for only a month while they stuffed paper-clad boxes under it, until one day the took out all the boxes, unwrapped them, and then put the tree away. At the time, I thought they had simply come to their senses concerning what an immensely tacky decorating choice they had made, but now they have done the same thing again. Perhaps this tree has some ceremonial significance. The winter solstice is approaching; I can feel the days getting shorter and colder. Maybe the tree is there to remind them how much better the summer is than the winter. If that is the case, why don't they simply follow my orders and bring the summer back?

At least the tree is covered with shiny little objects that are fun to attack.

Surprise Attack

This morning, I was bored and wished to survey my domains in the hallway. I sent the male servant on an errand to dispose of unwanted garbage, and took the opportunity to recline in the hallway outside our door, while he was gone. Waiting until he thought my guard was down, the man across the hall entered the hallway! Immediately, I jumped into action, puffing out my tail, so that he would know I meant business. I retreated down the hall and took up an attack stance, before realizing that he was now between me and the safety of the apartment. Thinking quickly, I summoned the male servant, and used him as a distraction to allow me to retreat back into the apartment. The Russians are coming at me from all sides now. I'm not sure how much longer I can maintain the safety of this location. I may have to prepare a major countar-assault.

To make things worse, two strangers came over this afternoon. I recognized their smell as the people with whom we stayed briefly, when we first arrived from New York. They're quite harmless, but they brought over all sorts of strange new things, and moved a lot of things in the apartment around. Quite disconcerting. The big box in the window which I used to perch on is no longer there. They took it! I'm not sure I like this.

My Night, and Beyond.

I am a sleek, black cat, therefore Halloween is my night. I can arch my back making, my fur stand on end, and puff out my tail, just like all of those Halloween decorations my would-be minions spend their money on. Halloween is the night that children dress up as monsters and come to my door, begging to pay me tribute so that I might allow them to join my Unholy Army of the Night. As such, I was shocked and appalled to find out that this is not allowed in the building within which I currently reside. In order to thwart my recruitment of slaves, the management demands that tenants give their candy to the superintendant, so that he can divide it up and pass it out to children who go down to the lobby on Halloween night. Inconceivable! I have no doubt that The Russians are behind this. It reeks of Sikorski's scheming! I will have his head on a platter for such impudence!

Of all the nerve! Of course, it goes without saying that this superintendant is no doubt skimming candy for himself. And what of the unclaimed bags? I suppose he gets to keep them.

If this insult weren't enough to prove the failings of the world, there is more: I discovered that the local organization which is used to facilitate matching my fellow Cat Lords with new servants does not allow what they call "adoption" of a black cat around Halloween. They are afraid that the cats will be used in Halloween pranks, or sacrificed in satanic rituals. Unconsionable! Do you know what the problem with humans today is? No discipline! Who's fault is this? I blame the Cats, that's who! A proper Cat Lord is supposed to keep her servants in check. If they are allowed to run around, making their own decisions, not respecting other Cats, then there is nothing left but anarchy! I can tell you, this is one cat who simply won't stand for it!

Hiatus

I must confess that it has been a long time since I updated my blog. You see, between eating, sniffabouts, and ear-scratches, I barely have time for a solid 20 hrs of sleep per day. And I do bore easily. As such, extra-curricular activities such as this have fallen by the wayside.

You may ask why I finally broke my hiatus. I found out that my fat cousin Smokey has a blog. http://thebigfuzz.blogspot.com/ The thought that such a country-fried rube could show me up on-line was anathema to me. As such, I will try to post more often.

What has happened since last I posted regularly? Hmm . . . well, the male and female servants underwent some superstitious human ritual binding them to one-another. The only change that I can see in their lives is that they now wear metal bands on one finger. Seems quite pointless to me, but you must let them have their little amusements. It keeps them happy, and a happy servant is a productive servant. They do have their uses. For instance: a while back, I was out on a morning sniffabout (the male servant lets me out for a sniff while he puts those things on his feet, before leaving for the day), when the Great Dane from next door showed up. I immediately jumped into action, engaging a tactical retreat back to the home base, and use of the male servant as a human shield. While preparing to sortie from this vantage point the dog became baffled by my superior strategic intellect. Knowing that he was bested, the dog gave up and left.

Of course, you must let your servants know who is boss. Case in point: I used to enjoy resting atop the hutch that sits on the servants' desk. From this spot, I could survey my entire domain. I grew weary of this, however, and noted that the male servant prefers a certain rocking chair. Whenever he is in the apartment, he sits in this particular chair to worship the Big Box which contains their gods. In order to show him that I am master, and he is slave, I have taken to sleeping mostly on this chair. If he is sitting on the chair, and gets up for whatever reason, I take the spot. If he is sitting there, I get on his lap and demand worship. Thus, he knows that I own the chair as well as him. Simple, but effective.

Blogger has failed.

Test, test, test.

The Obnoxious Human Children across the hall have set my teeth on edge. Being that my teeth have very sharp edges, this is not good. Also, Blogger has persisted in annoying me. If such behaviour persists, Blogger may have to worry about death from above.

That is all.

Sniffabout

Lately, I have been venturing beyond the bounds of the apartment. Yesterday, I engaged in one of these sniffabouts. A sniffabout is like a feeble human walkabout, only with more sniffing. I explore the hallways outside the apartment, sniffing out possible enemies, interesting smells, and new realms to add to my dominion.

I had made it all the way to the end of the hallway when I heard a noise. Crouching low to the ground, I heard them clearly: Russians! And they were down the second branch of the hallway, between me and my home base. I was trapped, and left with only one option: they would suffer the Death of a Thousand Claws! Alas, the male, who was my escort, spirited me back to the home base before I got the chance. What were the Russians doing here? Were they Spooks or Ghouls? This could only mean one thing: somehow, the Russians have gotten wind of my involvement in Operation Jade Monkey. But how?

During the night, I retreated to my inner sanctum, at the back of the bedroom closet, to ponder my situation. How did the Russians find out about my involvement in the most secret of Operations? I can only guess that Monmartre was the source of the leak. He has always been feeble-minded, and a weakling. How did they follow me here? I latched onto this pair of humans, so that they could be my cover, disguising my trail from New York. I thought that I had buried all of my tracks, like so much faeces in litter. One thing is clear: I must keep a closer eye on my situation, from this time forward.

Voice

The Poor Pitiful Humans (Mummy and Daddy) frequently make a game of imitating my speech. They occasionally suffer the delusion that I am some sort of ventriloquist's dummy, and project their words into my mouth.

Sentences of this nature usually begin with: "Kitty says..." and end with me speaking with the voice of Samuel L. Jackson.

This is racism of the highest order--simply because I am a black cat, I must speak with the voice of a black man. Moreover, Mummy and Daddy seem completely unaware of my gender, at such moments. It obviously never occurred to them that I might speak with the voice of, say, Pam Grier.

In truth, I sound like neither. While there are many races of cat, we have no accent beyond the one we choose. For example: before submitting to my will, the Poor Pitiful Human Male had two cats at his old home-place. One, Amber, speaks with the voice of Dame Judi Dench. Not Judi Dench from that Britcom As Time Goes By, but Dame Judi Dench, from Shakespeare in Love. Similarly, the other cat, Bandit, despite being female, speaks with the voice of Marlon Brando. And not Marlon Brando playing Vito Corleone, but rather Marlon Brando playing Kurtz, or Dr. Moreau. Imagine a thin, rattling whine emerging from a shapeless mass of fur. In this case, Bandit doesn't sacrifice the water buffalo, she is the water buffalo.

Your Siamese does not sound like Yul Brynner, no matter how many times you watch The King and I together. Reconcile to this fact.

By now, you may be wondering what human demi-god I sound like. As in the case of Bandit, gender does not matter, so I might sound like David Niven, for all you know. And, like all beautiful women, I can change my tone to achieve my ends. So, let us say that, while Mummy received a dose of Audrey Hepburn while I was living with those white-trash hooligans on Long Island, I now sound somewhat like Lauren Bacall, or Avengers-era Diana Rigg.

So, as I continue blogging, and you continue reading, just imagine those voices...and bowing to their will.