That freshly unbagged kitty at the top of the page, acting as my own personal Cerberus, is my actual cat. Sure, she's not a dog, and she doesn't have three heads, But I'm an equal opportunity employer. And don't let her energy level fool you. She's been an evil little critter since she was knee-high to a wood bee. To everyone except me, of course. Just let me sit down in a wrought-iron chair on the porch, and she's up on my chest like an urban legend trying to suck the breath out of me, kneading my chestal area with her talons. We've bonded. We're of similar temperaments. Don't mess with the queen or you get the claws.
My goal is to lure you into my bloggy sanctum, and never let you leave. That job falls to Snuggles, the very special kitty. I want her to assist me in becoming the roach motel of blogdom. The Hotel California of your reading list. You check in, but you can't check out. You can check in any time you like, but you can never leave. That's kind of hard for me to accomplish on my own right now, what with two single posts showing. But before I crossed over, I had 499 posts, people! Four hundred ninety-nine posts! Since February, 2011. Somebody really needs to find a better use for her idle time, huh?
Alas, poor Snuggles. She is with me in spirit only. Oh, don't y'all worry your pretty little heads none about scrappy prickly Snuggles. She isn't dead. She forsook me for the neighbors. Not the neighbors with the dog that killed our chicken. The ones next door to them. She used to wander over there, and they fed her, and they let her in their house. They're kind of like the roach motel and Hotel California of neighbors. Because even though Snuggles was not allowed inside our house, I never knew her to be a wizard with doorknobs. So maybe she is plotting an escape, but has not yet had an opportunity to return. It's not like she wears pants to conceal bags of dirt from her tunnel that she can dump and scuff into the soil of her prison yard. And even if she could craft a papier mache head to fool the guards, there's no current for her to ride back home on a raincoat raft. Something tells me that she's not asking for a Raquel Welch poster and a rock hammer, either.
I miss my kindred catty spirit. But I don't worry about her. I know she's livin' it up with two recluses who don't drive, and only go to town when they call a taxi. Which is not exactly a yellow cab out here in Backroads, but more of a Dodge Caravan with a magnetic sign on the door. Snuggles might even be chowing down on Fancy Feast every evening, with a white tablecloth and candlelight.
I'm counting on that picture to strike fear into your mouse-clicking fingertips. Sit a spell. Take your Crocs off.
I heard those neighbors as they let Fluffy in their house. "We believe in two things: discipline and the Bible. Here you'll receive both. Put your trust in the Lord; your ass belongs to me."
ReplyDeleteYou might wanna watch that sewer outlet in a year or two.
I say we form a fellowship and return your Precious to you.
ReplyDeleteIf I sit down, make myself comfortable and take off my Crocs, one of my other friends--not you, Val--will take off with my chic rubberware and will destroy them, to ensure I never wear them again.
ReplyDeleteSo thank you, but no. I will keep my Crocs on, but I WILL sit a spell...
Stephen King revisited in this post. I always enjoyed his nod to the music he loved and the time periods the songs referenced. Hotel California is one of my all time favorites. Changing of the Guard(s) - Bob Dylan - fascinating. When, and if, Snuggles ever gets hungry she will hit you up again. So, she probably is living a life of luxury (in her mind). I do miss the cute little black cat - it was adorable.
ReplyDeleteLeenie,
ReplyDeleteAt least with the neighbors, Snuggles is busy living. Here, she was busy dying. The other cats hated her, and chased her every time she got near the food pan. Her fluffy fur rolled across the porch like tumbleweeds every time a breeze kicked up.
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Stephen,
Ahem. Why do I suddenly feel old and unattractive? I have resolved to let my Precious stay. It would be selfish to bring her back.
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Sioux,
Good for you. Don't mind Hick sitting there on the porch in his tighty-whiteys. That's how we roll here in Backroads. But remember, in Backroads, the fire department can't hear you scream when your head is stuck between the faucet and the sink in a freak hair-washing accident.
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knancy,
Snuggles is better off in the loving arms and walls of her adoptive family. I have let her go. But she's so darn color-coordinated with my new template, I have to flaunt her picture at the top of the page.
That other kitty was cute, but was a random Google cat. I have a black one that I would love to stuff into a bag (oops...my thoughts are leaking out my fingertips again), but he is morbidly obese, and the cost of such an enormous bag would be prohibitive. Poor Stockings. He has been eating his feelings since we picked him up at the end of the road and started calling him "she." It wasn't until "her" castration that we learned the truth.
Sweet of you to give up your friend to live with reclusive family. If Martha, the boy cat keeps biting customers, he may have to find other living quarters, too. He has his eye on the door to our home where dogs reside. I wouldn't care, but Wall-E objects wildly. He has a high pitched bark that slithers up my spine to hit a nerve in my head that causes me to bring out Mr. Flyswatter, the enforcer.
ReplyDeleteKathy,
ReplyDeleteSo that bark is kind of like one of those carnival games where you pound a disk with a hammer, and the thing shoots to the top to ring a bell? And Mr. Flyswatter is the prize? Cool.