May 7, 2015
Chapter 2
My ape Gen-ah is mad. His cable TV went out last night while he was watching other apes play with a big ball. (The only TV I allow is “Cute,” when the kittens run around, and “Nature.” I like the birds.) He sat in my wing chair, ignored me—ignored me!—and looked at papers stuffed together. He calls this “book.”
So, all these buzzing, winged creatures started ramming the window screens and taunting me. What is a respectable cat to do? I leaped up on the sill and slashed the screen open to get the little bastards.
Gen-ah yelped, “No, Scot-uh!”
But it was too late. The fatso bugs were now in the lamp shade, so I knocked the lamp down and ate them all. Tasted like chicken.
Gen-ah cried. Gen-ah tried to catch me. Silly Gen-ah.
“Scot-uh! Bad girl!” He was stating the obvious.
So many other mysteries am I responsible for: moved keys; pressing on the garage door opener so Gen-ah has to get up and close it; spilling any and all open liquids onto the carpet; knocking over his containers of pens and then dragging them under the sofa. I once broke five wine glasses (what is the deal with wine—meow-ick-ack-ack) by jumping on the counter and landing amongst them.
So, today, all was well. Until the wind blew all these crispy-winged seed things off the maple tree and the seed things hit the other study window, and I slashed that screen to catch the little bastards, only crispy-winged seed things taste like Elmer’s Glue (I belong to Cat-a-Non, a support group for paste eating felines), so I spat them out and hurled a hair ball.
“Scot-uh! Bad girl!”
My dog came over from next door to prostrate himself before me. Impulsively, he crouched and barked. Oh, baby. I fluffed up to three times my size and slashed his nose, the little bastard. He cried like that cookie-pushing Brownie Scot-uh I bit when she made a grab for me.
“Scot-uh! Bad girl!”
Yawnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.
Damn straight.