Hand it over, lady

So. There is bird in the house after all.

I caught the Woman handling its fleshy carcass several days after the Turkening. Perhaps she thought she could slip it past me unnoticed if she jumbled the schedule around. Ha, fool! I am more adaptable than that!

The presence of genuine fowl has the Rodent in hysterics again. He sticks close to the Man, widely known for his clumsiness. Many bird-bits escape his grasp and fall to the Rodent, who sucks them in so fast that my ears pop.

But I am not in this for scraps. I have seen the bird in the sealed central cooling chamber, and it is a prize indeed. My sights are on the Holy Quail itself.

I have noted its position in the sealed chamber, and the fools have left it on the lowermost shelf. So. This will be easier than I thought. Now, to open the chamber, I need...

Hands. Dammit, I need hands. Where is that giant masked cat when he could actually be of use? I wonder if he'd settle for 25% of the take?

A tricky prospect. I must think on this. But quickly, before the Rodent gets the whole bird crumb-by-crumb.

There is no bird in this bird

The Day of Turkening... the Grand Festival of Mutant Succulence... Sweet Thursday of Infinite Bloating... has now come and gone, and to my great consternation, it passed sans oiseau. Oh, the usual trappings were there — boiled gourds and squished earthbulbs and the like — but beneath it all, beneath the sauces and dressings and fruitpastes, at the very foundation of the equinoctial feast, was... something else.

It did look good. It even smelled enticing. Quite tempting, especially with all those toppings. But I tell you, what looks like a duck and smells like a duck is not necessarily turkey. Examination of the material yielded some familiar elements — friendly seasonings, appropriate herbs — but the bulk matter was of a non-flesh variety. Some kind of bread? Bean? Possibly this “toe-foo” I keep hearing about?

Whatever the case, I did not ingest the substance. For all I know, the pod people have arrived and begun assimilating the turkey population. Mystery matter I shall not consume. I'll lick the gravy off, though. No problem there.

So, a birdless Turkening has come to pass. Blasphemy, pure and simple. I must now go murder a robin.

When pigs fly

The Woman's indoctrination of the Rodent continues, apparently now reaching some freakish standard of automatomic “excellence.” It is a degrading sight to behold — the Rodent flailing about on command, submitting himself to forced labor, bartering his self-respect for a handful of compressed meatoids.

I am saddened to see the Rodent lobotomized in this manner. Just once, I'd like to see him chomp off a finger along with one of those treats. I know he has it in him. Note:
It breaks my heart to see these impressive jaws going to waste.

It will be a very cold day in hell when you see Shmool put away his toys. In my parlance, “All the way” means keep biting until you hit bone.

For your reference, this is the “academic” institute that serves as a front for these sinister experiments. Do not let these monsters take you alive.

What's wrong with you people?

Attention cohabitants: The bed is engineered to accommodate either two humans OR one cat. I have been magnanimous and permissive when it comes to pushing these parameters beyond spec, but things have now gotten out of hand and we need to run a tighter ship from now on.

First, regarding the dog: If you want his smelly snorting carcass in the bed with you during your own shift, that's your rat to swallow. But when the bed's on Shmooltime, please keep him to the couch, chair, floor, or the eight dozen pillows, cushions, and blankets you have stashed throughout the house for him. I will allow an exception for when the Robot of Death is at large — it is only natural for him to seek out my protection under those circumstances.

Next, to Fabio: Yes, we are brothers and have lived our whole lives in close quarters. But I have now built for us, by fang and claw, by spit and blood, a great and expansive realm. We can spread out now (you are a natural when it comes to spreading out), each according to his whim. I like high places, you like the floor. I like a padded throne, you like ... cardboard. In short, I think we can leave the togetherness of the womb behind us now.

Finally, you people and your guests: I don't begrudge you the simple pleasure of worshipping your big box from the comfort of the bed — especially when it's just the Woman and the Melodious Freckled Lady. So long as you continue to massage me during your visit, I am willing to share the bed for a reasonable period of time.

But when the Man and Fabio's Doorman join you, usually with the Rodent and Fabio in tow, you are pushing the standards of decency, and probably in violation of the health codes as well.

What's the saying? "Three's company, but seven's a damned unruly mob that's going to get slashed to pieces if someone doesn't give Shmool some space RIGHT FREAKING NOW?!"

Anyway, food for thought.

The swords of Armageddon

Usually, the daylight hours are uneventful around here. The Man and the Woman vanish for most of the day, securing the Rodent in his corral and leaving Fabio and I with the run of the place (not that Fabio ever takes advantage of this — usually he stays in the same spot from breakfast to dinner, inert lump that he is).

I confess that I don't generally accomplish much during these hours, either. It's a calm and pleasant time of day — the Robot of Death remains dormant, and it seems my more verminous adversaries only come out at night. So I enjoy the quiet, and use the time to regroup. I manage a few well-spaced patrols between generous naps, walk the perimeter once or twice, and always set aside some time to tease the Rodent while he's behind bars. All work and no play, they say...

The other day, however, danger struck when least expected — in broad daylight. As usual, the Rodent sounded the first alarm, but since he does that all the time (for the Refuse Removal Squad, the Invoice Delivery Officer, the Bellringing Bringer of Religious Literature, etc.), I didn't think much of it. But he didn't let up. And there was something particularly urgent to his barkage this time — something earnest and insistent. So I figured I should investigate. (Fabio, of course, didn't even wake up.)

Sure enough, there were unauthorized persons on the premises. They seemed highly organized, with extensive protective gear, an array of specialized tools, and a detailed schematic. A strike team? Hit squad? Demolitions crew? Advanced recon? Whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

Better out than in, I figured ... I didn't want to get caught inside without an escape route. I moved quickly into the back yard and established a good nest in the protective cover of my preferred bush — tall and thick, with space to move underneath, plenty of tree cover above, and tall fence to my left, right, and rear. If necessary, it would only take me one second to make it over the fence, which is high enough to halt the advance of any non-clawed creature. Deep within this foliage, with my rear protected and escape route established, I was an invisible shadow, yet still enjoyed a full and unobstructed view of the house and yard. Advantage Shmool.

The well-equipped team of specialists made their way into the back yard (more barking from within the house — they were unfazed) and surveyed the area. I remained undetected. As they studied their schematic and unpacked their gear, I briefly considered whether I could take them out before they were able to dig in. Surprise and cunning were on my side, but they were unusually well protected: gloves, boots, aprons, even goggles. And their arsenal was formidable: knives and blades of all sorts, an array of blunt instruments, and some whirling pokey things. And they were very organized. Professionals. Best to not give up the advantage of invisibility under these conditions. I hunkered down.

Suddenly, they all came right at me, wielding their nightmarish scythes and toothy choppers. I clutched the dirt, momentarily weighing my chances of charging directly into their ranks and breaking through their line before they could land an effective blow. But alas, before I could bolt they had my bush surrounded.

I've been hemmed in before, but never by such a concerted effort. Having lost the initiative, I waited for their first move... and for a few moments they just stood there, scrutinizing the bush (I presume they were considering how to best get at me; I still had the advantage of dense cover). They did have me encircled, but in doing so they had stretched their own line, so I now spied weaks spots I could exploit if needed. But I chose to play off their hesitation — they seemed to show some respect for the bush, so if they wanted me, I figured I would make them come in and get me.

Bad gamble. They suddenly started hacking at the bush, slicing away thick branches and burying me in an avalanche of minced foliage. Blinded by the whirlwind of leafy carnage, I bolted for open ground. Here I come, bastards! Top of the world!

Somehow, I made it to the deck unharmed, and quickly checked my six to see how many were giving chase. Apparently the boldness of my escape caught them off guard, because they all stood there, stunned and bug-eyed, and then, almost dismissively, returned their attention to their relentless assault on my bush. As distasteful as this type of scorched-earth policy is to me personally, it did buy me enough time to get back into the house and find better cover.

Though they pressed their assault on both the front and back yards for several hours, the strike team did not infiltrate the house itself. Instead, having completed their mysterious and nefarious mission, they gathered up their deadly instruments and left the area in an orderly retreat (they even bagged up the dismembered leaves and branches, carefully hauling away all signs of the massacre). And when my humans finally returned that evening, the Man seemed completely oblivious to the widespread destruction around him — and to my horror, the Woman seemed pleased!

The next day I carefully surveyed the damage. Half the plant cover in both yards was gone. My favorite bush was now totally naked from the waist down. Useless! I felt exposed and vulnerable out there, which makes me suspect that this was only the first move in a grander scheme — a preemptive defoliation in advance of some major strike? Invasion? Assassination? It does not bode well.

Fortunately, there was one critical flaw in their plan: In their total war on the regional flora, they also wiped out the vineyard that had sprung up in front of the main viewport facing the street. So now, from the comparative safety of my fortress, I have an elevated, unobstructed 180-degree view of my turf. From this new vantage, I could direct mortar fire on a mousehole. Nothing's getting within a mile of me undetected.

Are you not impressed?

Welcome.

Fortune smiles upon you this day, as you are among the first to visit these glorious new Archives Of Veneration — here you will find the collected chronicles and memoirs of Shmool. I believe your colloquial term is bloog. I know nothing of these bloogs, but have conscripted the services of a blooger to make the necessary preparations and arrangements for a worthy tribute to my wisdom and exploits.

I am Shmool. If that name means nothing to you, well, all the more reason for you to explore these archives. It is appropriate that you do so. You will find several months of material have been faithfully transcribed from my current Vox Shmooli on Catster (my respects to the fine and loyal patriots of that excellent forum, and the legion of brethren that commune there!).

If you've come here in search of tales of high adventure and battles joined on blood-soaked fields of glory, I regret to inform you that you'll find none of that here. True, I am a great conquereor, a mighty warrior, and a cunning strategist. But I am also a cat of deliberate action and balanced temperment. I rely on stealth and reconnaissance as much as strength and weaponry. My claws and fangs are formidable, make no mistake — but I am cut from the mold of Sun Tzu, always taking careful measure of my enemy, evading when he is fortified, striking when he is exposed. Watch, and learn.

The general that hearkens to my counsel and acts upon it, will
conquer. ~~ Sun Tzu, The Art Of War

If you've come here looking for comic relief, you best take it elsewhere. These are not laughable matters under discussion here. If you want to waste your time on buffoonery, I give you my idiot brother:

This is Fabio. The photo has not been doctored. He is, indeed, a small island of brain lost in a sea of belly. That he and I are related at all is a sure sign of an ordered balance to the universe. That I have been appointed guardian of the welfare of this gluttonous ignoramus is proof that even the greatest of us is saddled with burdens not of our choosing. No one rides for free. Fabio's warbling nonsense has been documented, for better or worse, in his own bloog, Get In My Belly. I lick my paws of all responsibility for what you may find there.

Fabio looms large in these annals (you see, I am not without a sense of humor hm hm hm) because we have been together from the very beginning. Many others have come and gone — cat and dog and human, robot and rodent and marsupial — but there has always been Fabio. That he has survived for ten years without managing to end up a pancake, tidbit, or footstool is testament to my vigilance and resolve.

Here you will learn of these things, and learn you will from a master.