From the desk of Gothika, Dark Lord of the Grimalkins aka Kitty-Boy:
“Maycomb was an old town, but it was a tired old town when I first knew it.”
Hmm . . . lovely, but no.
“Call me Ishmael.”
No! Oh dear no, please don’t call me Ishmael.
Why does my human set such store by the written word? *sigh*
After a six-month hiatus – during which she plagued you, her loyal fan base, with her tireless blather – I am back. The reason for my return (prepare yourself, gentle reader) has its roots in pure evil.
She is packing!
Oh, she tries to hide it from me, confining her efforts to the closet, behind closed doors – but I . . . I am a shadow; I am a sleek, stealthy creature, a night hunter. I SEE ALL! Yes, she is packing.
The man spends moments at the computer when he is not even aware of my existence. He stares moony-eyed at the screen, fingers clicking on beach and margarita advertisements.
Where is this Florida they speak of? And could its charms possibly surpass my beauty? I think not!
I have doubled and redoubled my efforts at winning their undivided attention. While my human pours over maps and speaks with delight of this . . . this creature, this Mickey Mouse (?!) I sit on the back of the couch and tap her head with my gorgeous, hairy paw. I purr lovingly in her ear. When all else fails, I vomit on her favorite chair. (For a clever beast, she is appalling inept at scouting her surroundings, and she swears like a pirate.)
I roll over to show her my lovely belly (yes, like a dog!). I prance behind her wherever she goes, twitching my perfect plume of a tail. Sometimes I even condescend to bat at her shoelace. (A favorite activity of hers; I love her, but she is a simple creature.)
But – all to no avail! What to do, what to do?
Oh, she tries to comfort me! The boy will stay with me, she says. The boy! He has a dog! A large, clumsy, revolting savage! He drools; he reeks. (The dog, not the boy; the boy is at least moderately civilized.)
The girl will visit me frequently, she says. The girl is entirely too busy and will spend no more than an hour or two each day (!!) paying homage and making tuna offerings. She does not come close to comprehending what is required of her and, indeed, she can often be observed talking to the bird (Pretty Bird, she calls it! Never noticing its failure to fashion real sentences.) She stops in the yard and pets the dogs! Before petting me!
This is unspeakable! It cannot be endured.
Where is this home of this M. Mouse? (And how did he come to be ruler there?) Will it be possible to follow the humans? I am ill at the thought. They travel in a horrid little box on wheels which plays the most atrocious music and smells of coconut air freshener. The man loves speed and curses at the other little boxes in the road and the woman wears atrocious pink sunglasses.
But I digress.
Surely, dear reader, you can comprehend the scope of my difficulties. The fateful day fast approaches. If you are reading this, I beg you, send help.
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