Whatever

Again with the big box. The people gathered with some of their accomplices last night to stare into their box-god for numerous hours. The evening's entertainment consisted of a bunch of people dressed like border collies playing fetch with a little bald man made of what I assume must have been cheese, given how much they were all clapping about it.

During lulls in this bizarre amusement they passed Fabio and the Rodent up and down the couch, handling them in a most undignified manner. This is what happens to you if don't establish clear boundaries with these people.

No caviar was served. Drat.

The Man had informed the Rodent earlier that his "sister" Babalulu was coming (if you ask me, this "sister" business seems highly improbable). Thus alerted, I steadied my defenses for the onslaught of this Mutant Terrier and her Insane Bullwhip Tail, but she never appeared. I now suspect that the Man was bluffing about Bloobu coming, just to keep me in check. Still, better safe than sorry when it comes to that one.

I am happy to report, though, that the Melodious Freckled Lady is back after some time away from my presence. She is quite reasonable and pleasant, and knows how to treat a creature of my magnificence with the proper respect and affection. You encounter precious few people of her qualities in this world. She's the cat's pajamas, if you'll forgive the vulgar expression.

I am pleased

The Woman brought home a new bed and placed the Big Rodent in it. I allowed him to warm it up for me, and then took my rightful place upon its excellent cushions. Very good.

The Man finally got around to cleaning up my yard. The Rodent's work back there has been nothing short of prolific, and I was beginning to wonder what it would take for the Man to get with the shovel. I shouldn't have to tell him these things.

The Man also brought out his whirling wheeled blades of death and harvested the grass. A depletion of useful cover, to be sure, but it does make it considerably more pleasant to move around out there, and rugged though I be, I'll be glad not to feel the dew on my nethers every morning.

Et tu, Bloaté?

Fabio's leaf obsession is getting out of hand. Again.

I don't mind his weird and completely pointless style of art. Lord knows if I looked like him I'd have some issues to work out. But he just can't seem to get them through the airlock. So for every leaf he manages to bring into the house, he leaves at least a dozen more piled outside the door.

This is a high-traffic area, not to mention the logistical keystone of the whole neighborhood. I must be allowed to move easily through this portal. I require an unobstructed line of sight when entering the wilderness, and a fast, clear approach when returning to base. Even the hound recognizes this (the one thing he does disturbingly well is sail through that portal... some traffic control may be in order).

But my idiot brother's leafy mess is fast becoming a dangerous obstacle, a festering clog that will one day cut off my airlock access completely. I do not rule out the possiblilty, as remote as it may seem, that this has something to do with the Woman's recent rezoning activities. Fabio is a sucker, after all, and may very well be an unwilling pawn in some grander scheme to redefine my boundaries.

It may be necessary for me to explore some kind of alliance with the Man in this matter.

The Woman is up to something

I can't quite put my paw on it, but something big -- possibly radical -- is afoot. The Woman is certainly behind it, and it also seems to involve the Big Rodent.

Each day when the Man and the Woman leave the house (the time when peace and quiet, as well as law and order, reign mercifully over the cosmos), they place the Rodent in his detention area -- a fenced-off section of the mess hall. This is entirely appropriate, and a rare demonstration of rational behavior regarding this unpredictable, slobber-prone, pee-from-the-hip beast. His containment means one less front to fortify, one less random element to account for.

(His nightly parole is a time of wailing and flopping and dribbling and general chaos, to be sure, but my tolerance during this ritual is bolstered by the concurrent offering of pellets.)

Of late, the Woman has augmented the fencing arrangement of the hound's stockade, such that it now includes both the mess hall and the adjacent arterial passageway. That, in of itself, is irrelevant.

However, this new deployment effectively deprives me of access to the sleeping chamber, the bed therein, and thus my whole base of operations. The key areas--feeding station, central living quarters, and main airlock--are all still open to me, so I can make due. I have established an auxiliary command center on the purple couch, which has the advantage of good visibility, but is not as defensible as I would prefer. Plus, Fabio's lazy carcass is always in the way.

What troubles me are the political implications. It's possible the Woman is maneuvering the Rodent in order to establish a No-Shmool Zone that bisects the house (the original fenceline of the stockade had already sealed off access to my emergency bunker, so this represents a SECOND annexation of my territory).

This is not a good sign. I fear the two of them may be trying to work me into a corner, but I will not go easily. When and if the Anschluss comes, I shall be ready.

I take no pleasure from bloodshed

“I won't be wronged. I won't be insulted. I won't be laid a hand on. I don't do these things to other people, and I require the same from them. ” -- John Wayne in “The Shootist”I wear my battle scars well. They are badges of honor, and warnings to all who would enter my circle of death uninvited. I am a seasoned fighter, a creature of both cunning stealth and sudden, brute strength. A guerilla gorilla.But I do not relish violence. I desire only peace and respect and dinner on time. I am content to keep to the shadows and let trouble pass by unmolested ... but I will not be pushed. Nor bathed.The truth of the matter is, I enter battle neither lightly nor often. Consider Fabio, the soft and silly fool, who lies about with his tender, doughy belly exposed to all the toothy world. He would have been meatloaf for the jackals years ago had it not been for my considerable sphere of protection. Yet he has seen many more battles than I, suffered greater and deeper wounds, for he waddles blindly into trouble, yodeling all the while: “Behold the fatted calf! Which way to the wedding feast?”It's no wonder he spends so much time wearing the inverted dunce cap of the incompetent.Darkness and silence are my allies. I move only in careful arcs, always protecting my flanks. I never break eye contact. I never step aside. And most of my battles are won without a blow, with my claws holstered and my gaze unflinching. You may go your way in peace, if you go now.Or stay, and I'll take your face off.

Damn that dog stinks

The people wasted a lot of valuable time and couch space yesterday worshipping their big box - some kind of asinine sporting event. Whatever. The problem is, they were eating some seriously wrong food, and then sharing it with the Big Rodent. People! Do you not know what oily salt-potato wafers and breaded cheese tubes will do to that boy?!

And then, get this, the Man pours some of his nasty yellow fizz-water into a small glass and lets Ol' Lowrider try it! I'm dealing with morons.

Sure enough, about an hour later the fun begins. The Woman clutches her nose while her eyes tear up, and the Man has to move to the far end of the couch and breathe into his shirt. Even the dog seems worried about what's coming out his caboose.

And look at him. He's built like a wind tunnel. Like he was designed for maximum exhaust efficiency.

I'd find this all very amusing if it weren't for my keen, battle-honed sense of smell, and the fact that my nose occupies the same elevation as the offending vent. And--here's the icing--these people call ME the smelly one.

Of course, Fabio also managed to scrounge a few bites from their greasy fingers, but that doesn't really matter--I'm pretty sure whatever goes into Fabio stays in Fabio.

Justice is coming

My idiot brother is eating all the food. He has grown to gluttonous proportions once again, at the cost of all speed and agility. The rotund fool. Just look at the way he walks. He will be no good in battle. I must carry the fight alone.

At times I cannot reach my food rations due to his intervening width. This is no matter, as I am a keen forager and able to embezzle the necessary sustenance from the dish of the Big Rodent. The one they call El Inus dares not interfere - he has learned proper respect for the Blades of Shmool.

The Man caught me at the Big Rodent's trough yesterday and fired his dastardly squirt-ray (a coward's weapon!) - I quickly redeployed to the defensible high ground of the bed, and the Man did not press his attack. He is no great fool. One day he will fire that squirt-ray once too often, and nothing less than the Purple Death Machine will be able to save him.

I must rest. I have commandeered the new bed for my command post, and it is excellent. The high ground affords me a perfect view of the terrain, I am protected on three flanks, and its squishy nature yields a perfect natural foxhole. I sink deeper and deeper into its warm sponge of comfort. Deeper. Oh, so good . . . so soft . . . purrrrrrrr . . .

Alert! I hear the tap dance of the Big Rodent, followed by the sound of pellets being deployed. I must get to my station before that bloated fool arrives and inhales it all!