I ask you, is this rational behavior? I suspect not. Nevertheless, I soon found myself surrounded by three maniacal, foul-mouthed, and hairball-barfing mutants from another planet who refused to share their toys or food with me.
Then one miraculous day, a Monday, I believe, another alien cat spontaneously erupted from under the deck, squawling for help, and like a stupefying curly-coiffed Supergirl, I rushed forth to save the day. Since I rescued the squawly ball of fur, I felt entitled to name him … Squawl Ball. But noooooo, the mommy biped wouldn’t have it. Instead, she insisted on calling him Louis (gag), after yet another withering ancestor. Let me tell you, Squawl Ball is a predestined moniker, although Loucifer is sometimes apropos.
As you can see, Squawl is also a perverse practical joker who takes abnormal joy in scaring me away from my own toy box, like a Chucky Doll, except with fur and claws.
But you know, I ain’t totally without cerebral uniqueness. Because one day (a Monday), I discovered that Squawl was really useful for something besides leaving pawprints in my food and hoarding my toys. He makes an excellent cushion. See?
Yes,
I had to display my “innocent” face (taught to me by the dad biped) to
the mom biped who stalks me with a camera and convince her that Squawl actually
enjoys being squooshed. She bought it.
I
suppose this is enough unasked-for information for this Monday, and since
Squawl hasn’t been squooshed today, I’d better go make myself useful and earn
my food. Which is another subject, that
stuff the bipeds call “food.” I’ll tell
you about that next week, so just hold tight.
Toodle-oooo,
Mrs.
Minnifur (another of the biped’s idea of cleverness)
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