What follows was found in our mail, scratched out in grease (or maybe blood ?) on a very expensive linen tablecloth:
Hello again, cats of the neighborhood! How was your year? Ours was OK. Steve and Barb are good enough humans, but they’re getting more hysterical by the day. Enough about Steve and Barb!
This has been a good year for food. The bowls were filled on time and to satisfying levels, and every other night a breast of chicken descended from Steve and Barb’s dinner table, as per our binding agreement. However, extraordinary exceptions occurred on March 15, when dinner arrived 42 minutes late, and on July 21, when we had to make do with one cup of a neighbor’s Meow Mix — split three ways.
In both cases, retribution was swift and devastating. Babette leapt from the couch and took down a wall filled with china. Little Claudette urinated in the toaster. I threw up on Barb. We were tremendous. Steve and Barb promised, tears streaming down their puffy faces, to never screw up the food again.
It was also a great year for sleep. I slept like a cat unhinged, a madman in sun puddles. I barely managed to stay awake for 10 consecutive minutes throughout April. I chased a bird in October and slept to November. I fell asleep walking down a hallway and stood there, snoring, until Barb came home from a garage sale cradling an armload of pottery done by children. I once slept so hard I was taken to the vet, who lured me from sleep by microwaving his nurse’s lunch and feeding it to me. He is an evil man, but he has his moments.
Little Claudette is continuing her studies, bringing home fresh game nightly. She’s graduated from Steve’s soft, pliable stomach to birds. In May she brought home a dead blue jay. At first, we wanted to bring it in the house and deposit the head in a shoe (Barb’s screams are like music), but we decided to leave it tucked discretely in an unused pot in the forgotton container garden, created during happier times. The scent of decomposition filled us with pride, until Steve came through with a towel pressed to his mouth and threw up in the bushes.
Speaking of scents, a strange, irresistible smell wafted over the compound in June, accompanied by the nightly caterwauling of those ferals down by the river. Little Claudette slipped under he fence to investigate and didn’t come back until late the next day with a surprised look on her face. She spent the next few weeks to herself, lost in thought, brooding. It is all very mysterious. The surprised look remains. She looks like Barb did, right after she surprised Steve at the computer — a night before she got rid of all the computers.
As for our youngest, Babette, she is growing up nicely, though she is bit headstrong for a Scottish Fold. In early September, she experimented urinating on all the furniture, first the chairs and couches and then the tables and dressers, thinking she could find a more satisfying place to conduct her affairs. She could not, thanks to Steve’s incessant screaming and Barb’s racking sobs.
Man, those people just go on and on! Sometimes I think we’re the only things that kept them from going completely insane in 2012. Hopefully we will be just as lucky in 2013 — though, to be perfectly honest, I wouldn’t mind seeing Steve and Barb going insane.
Happy Holidays from Babette, Little Claudette, and Big Bernadette! Please throw this letter next door when you’re finished.
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