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.