Puddler nabbed

My poor, stupid brother.

The Woman caught him in the act this time. There were rough interrogations — the Woman using some new words I'd not heard from her lips before, the Man brandishing his dastardly squirt-ray.

He was chastised and cast out into the rain. I overheard the Woman muttering as she locked down the crime scene — something about feeding Fabio to the Rodent.

The poor fool got sloppy. When you get sloppy, you get caught. No excuse for that. He'll have to pay the piper on this one, and from the sound of things, they're gonna send him up the river for sure.

What do you do with a brother like that? Useless.

Rein it in a tad, brother

Day 4. Still no humans, and Fabio has been hitting the kibble stockpiles a little too aggressively. I'm sure he sees these mountains of pellets as a glutton's grand bonanza, but for crying out loud, his belly's stretched like the skin on a kettle drum.

I don't think he quite gets the concept of rationing. After all, there's no telling when (or verily, if) the dispensers of sustenance might return to resume their appointed duties. We might do well to leave some of this magnificent feast in reserve, yes?

Otherwise, it may become necessary to force my way into the kibble vault (a difficult proposition for those of us who remain fingerless).

There's always the option of foraging out-of-doors — assuming, of course, that my engorged sibling doesn't plug up the hatch with his bulbousness.

A whiff of subterfuge

Three days and no humans. No dog, either. Mountains of food left out... several bowls of water conveniently placed around the house. I have the run of the place, my pick of the numerous cushioned sleeping stations, unfettered access to the various chambers and anterooms of my stronghold.

The smelly tree is completely unmonitored — and all the barricades have been removed. Hm.

Fabio is also here, mainly preoccupied with those mountains of food, but otherwise oblivious to the obvious:

A trap. It's far too easy, too convenient, too quiet. Surely we are being observed.

Ha. They shan't catch me red-pawed. As always, I remain one pounce ahead of these so-called “authorities.”

I know you're watching! You hear me? Shmool knows what's going on! Ha! Ha ha ha!

Hello?

No comment

It is my policy not to comment on these matters while an investigation is still pending.

The public may rest assured that at no time have I taken any action in violation of natural law or in excess of the powers granted me by divine right.

No questions at this time, please. Thank you and good day.

Crosseyed and painless

I socked the Big Rodent right between the eyes. The Woman seemed to think I had actually slashed at him, but no. If I'd deployed the claws on that hit, the whole neighborhood would have heard it. No, just a little rap on the forehead to remind him who's who around here.

You should have seen the look on his face — he was stunned and totally mortified. That's right, buddy. Chew on that for a while.

No one seemed to want to talk to me after that, so I figured screw 'em and decided to enjoy a cigar in peace — one of those special Cigarillo Euphoriaromatica ones that pack such a fine wallop. Probably should have known better, because once I start in on those smokes it's a fast fall into bacchanalia and then blackout.

I woke up on the floor hours later, the world spinning and no idea how I'd got there. I was flat on my back and covered in flecks of nip, with the spit-soaked cigar tucked under my arm. Fabio was looking at me funny. My gums hurt.

Upon reflection, I realize the Rodent didn't really do anything to warrant a whack on the noggin. Nor is it like me to smoke myself into a blurry stupor. It must be this damn winter is getting to me. The friggin walls are closing in. Between that and the spliffs, I think I'm losing it.

This is no good. I've got to pull myself together before I come completely unhinged.

In the meantime, just keep away from me for both our sakes. Understand?

No rest for the wicked

All quiet.

That's about all there is to report, I'm afraid. The big long dark is upon us again, and of late I've been spending many, many hours at the main viewport, surveying my domain, searching for signs of intrusion, watching with hardened patience for a disturbance in the stillness. And in my unwavering vigilance I have only discovered that, dammit, all is well.

It is cold and solemn out there. No cats on the street. No squirrels on the fences. No rats in the ivy. No dogs signing the hydrant. No robins in the feeder-trap. No ants. Not even a mouse.

No sign of the giant masked bandit and his thugs, not for a long time now.

Only crows.

I am pleased that the beneficence of my protection has led to a safe and secure realm. It does my heart good to see a world at peace. The Man and Woman have erected their annual tribute to me, a mighty tree festooned in lights and garlands. The whole neighborhood is alight in a festival of accolades to their Munificent Protector. The soft glow of it all is pleasing, calming.

But I grow restless. It is too quiet out there. Is there nothing left to conquer? The nights pass slowly, yet I keep my steadfast watch, a solitary and unflinching sentinel, secretly wishing something would stir — yet nothing disturbs the stillness.

Only the crows — squadrons of feathered rogues to whom I conceded dominion over the skies long ago. Loud, ugly, fearless winged Shmools, who know neither peace nor rest. Not a living thing in sight, and still they circle and swoop and bellow their unanswered challenges. I salute you, you miserable magnificent bastards.

Hey, barf happens

I tend to enjoy the middle of the night, because with the Man, Woman, and Rodent all piled up in the bedroom, I have my pick of all the cushiony spots in the house to relax (between patrols and skirmishes, of course — don't kid yourself into thinking Shmool would sleep during his watch).

The Man, it seems, can sleep through anything. Many a night I've held my claws to his throat just to see if his survival instincts will kick in. Nothing... not a twitch. I've seen the Rodent desperately try to wake him for breakfast when the Woman is AWOL, and pretty much nothing short of standing on his face will rouse him from his coma (and even then, he usually just rolls his face over into the protection of his pillow).

Yet somehow, whenever I'm enjoying one of my more satisfying burps — the productive kind — the Man leaps into action like, well, me. I swear, he springs vertically out of the bed and puts his shoes on while he's still in the air. Impressive, but so pointless. After all, if I'm not bothered by a little buoyancy in the bowels, what's his complaint?

Take last night — with the neighborhood at peace in the stillness of the wee hours, I had curled up into the Rodent's toy-nest for a nice little na- ... meditation! A meditation. A brief centering of my energies. It's a spiritual warrior thing. Anyway. I felt a pleasant little gurgle within. Ah, so something's not quite settled in there. Best get it out.

Mind you, I'm on the opposite side of the house from the Man's sleep-chamber. So, I give a little haaaak, a little wahooook, a little blaaaarp, and up she comes. So sooner does the spit hit the afghan than I find myself suddenly scooped, flung, and airborne. I've gone from the nest to the street in .2 seconds, and I didn't even see the door open.

And I don't mind telling you, it's not like the Man doesn't do his share of barfing around here. And when he's the one giving something back to the community, he doesn't do it with the dignity and poise that I bring to the job. When he “talks to Ralph on the big white phone,” it's an ugly, drawn-out affair indeed — after which the Woman usually rewards him with water and a hot towel!

Oh, the hypocrisy.