The Litterness has ended

On April 25, at an inconsequential time of day, my rest from behind the toilet was disturbed by the apartment's maintenance crew. Apparently they were seeking to discover the source of a water leak in the garage.

As is my custom, I forgave them their intrusion and set to the task of being hospitable. Legs were rubbed, meows were issued, allergans were spread.

But these men seemed immune to my well-intentioned social advances. They stared at me as though I were a dung beetle, or John Kerry's hair if it suddenly grew legs and began walking. "You're not supposed to be there," they told me. And then they were gone.

Yes, my friends. My secret was exposed. For almost eight months I lived two lives, one as the sassy and sophisticated cat you all know, and another as a convict forced into hiding. My very existence was a "violation of lease code 10." I had become like the illegal alien, fearing deportation, my only crime being born with fur, whiskers, two red ears and a tail.

I (or my owner, rather) was impressed upon to remove the offending article from the premises within 24 hours. Some of you might suspect Stephanie's hand in this imbroglio, and be quick to draw conspiracy theories. But I say that despite our differences, Stephanie and I have a love for one another that no human could fathom.

So, as to the present. I've taken up digs out in the western suburbs in a big house, a yard to wander around, and three litter boxes to choose from. Above are my new roomies, Benjamin and Gusto.

I leave you with the following words.

If you stay too long inside my felinticity,
I'll trap you to a hairball and some kitty feed,
and I'll keep you there so that you must keep petting me.

New Operating Procedures from Management

Stephanie is coming home tonight.

It's been so long. I'm not sure if I'll even remember her anymore. Well, beyond her stink.

While she's been away, there's been some changes to the apartment, put into effect by me.



1) The litter box is just where one goes to relieve oneself. It is not necessarily a receptacle for said relief. The carpet does quite nicely too. As long as I'm in the litterbox while in the throws of waste ejection, the location of the result is immaterial.

2) When I'm not relieving myself, I walk around the apartment meowing with a high pierced feminine wail, so that all may know where I reside. Those who object to this practice can pet me and I will consider cessation.

3) Clothes of Stephanie left on the floor constitute amorous advances, and are subject for marking. Which means, being pissed on.

I sure hope Stephanie can comply with these small modifications.