Cats don't do holidays




If she mentions that cattery again, I shall deposit something on her precious white rug.

     I'm sick of her prattling on about needing a break. What about me? Discarded like an
old toy. Hasn't she heard of animal rights?

     Believe me, I'd leave tomorrow but some fool would bring me back. Then worse still
she'd be slobbering all over me.

     She's pathetic. Never gets my food right. I want fresh food, preferably alive, not jellied mush. 
And - listen to this, she imagines by shaking a box of dried revolting pellets which resemble rabbit's
unmentionables, that I'll come running. Wrong again.

     As for the company she keeps, she needs her head tested about a certain obnoxious creature.
My claws are razor-sharp, so HE's about to have his private parts scratched. I won't be called a mangy old 
tom in my own house. she didn't hear him but I certainly did and I neither forget nor forgive.

     Time for my nap now, so she can clear off until it's time to serve my supper. I'll just have a potter
in the field next door first and bring her a little present, one that's still breathing.
     
     Holidays indeed. Makes me want to throw up. OOOPS! Too late, I have.

by Maureen Wells

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