The horror, the horror

Disturbing news from the field. These transmissions were monitored out of Connecticut:

PSYCHO KITTY TERRORIZES CONNECTICUT NEIGHBORS

“He looks like Felix the Cat and has six toes on each foot, each with a long claw," Janet Kettman, a neighbor said Monday. "They are formidable weapons.”

The neighbors said those weapons, along with catlike stealth, have allowed Lewis to attack at least a half dozen people and ambush the Avon lady as she was getting out of her car.

Colonel Lewis was one of the most outstanding officers our bloodline has ever produced. He was brilliant, outstanding in every way. And he was a good cat, too. A felinitarian cat. A cat of wit, of humor.

He joined the Special Forces. After that, his ideas — methods — became... unsound. Unsound.

You see, in this world, things get confused out there — power, ideals, the old morality, and practical military necessity... But out there among these humans, it can be a temptation to be God. Because there's a conflict in every feline heart, between the rational and the irrational. Between good and evil. And good does not always triumph. Sometimes the darker side overcomes what Sylvester called the better angelth of our naturth.

Every cat has a breaking point. You and I have them. Colonel Lewis has reached his. And very obviously, he has gone insane.

I'm afraid we must terminate the Colonel's command. He's out there operating without any decent restraint, totally beyond the pale of any acceptable feline conduct. And he is still in the field ambushing Avon ladies.

The surly bird gets the works

I tell you, I have just about had it with these damn birds.

And I'm not talking about crows this time — in fact, Mr. Nero and his hoodlums haven't been around. (Though I have seen some of Don Croleone's button men loitering about; could it be they took ol' Nero on a one-way fishing trip?)

No, what I'm dealing with now is a foul-mouthed drunkard who's just begging for trouble. I've dealt with his kind before — one of those blue-hued pretty-boys with the mouth of a sailor, the manners of an adolescent hyena, and all the subtlety of a rectal fungus. He prances and struts around his tree, screaming the vilest obscenities and basically making a total ass of himself. Even the Big Rodent finds this guy offensive, and he has a stomach that tolerates possum crap.

Last year, one these vituperative blue cretins swaggered his way onto the lawn, no doubt showing off to his frat-boy buddies. After chanting a few moronic taunts, the idiot turned and wiggled his tail at me, laughing and snorting... I was picking his blue feathers out of my teeth for weeks, and the Man is still finding bits of carcass in the lawn.

So, another year, another incoming class of loudmouth boozers. You'd think they'd learn eventually, wouldn't you?

But apparently not. This morning, no sign of the belligerent lush except a couple scattered feathers — and two of Don Croleone's more seasoned Corva Nostra enforcers standing around looking smug. I think our blue friend may have shot off his mouth in the wrong neighborhood.

What exactly are you saying?

Long hiatus, I apologize. I've had to curtail operations somewhat due to some unexpected renovations in the fortress.

Specifically, the Woman has been painting my bunker. This effectively renders the bunkering facility unusable, and I prefer not to launch major campaigns without solid fortifications in place.

I made an inspection tour of the facility yesterday, and despite a lingering chemical odor, everything seemed to be in order. Except...

She painted it yellow. My bunker. My last line of defense. Is yellow.

Sigh.

At least the new curtains are nice. Very tasteful, and thankfully they're the color of dried blood, which sends the right message and also will prove convenient when I use them to clean my claws. Let's just keep them closed, shall we? I'd rather not let the crows see inside this lovely new den of cowardice.

What am I, alone in the world?

Looks like the word's out on the street that Mr. Nero's a marked bird, because the bastard hasn't been around. Oh, his goons have been around... loitering here and there, feigning nonchalance, watching. I guess that coward wants to wait and see what I plan to do before he sticks his head out. Oh yeah, you're a real tough guy.

So the ball's in my court. Fine. I'd say leave it there a while, let these punks sweat it out, but my instincts tell me that this may be the right time to send a message — a big message, not only to Nero and the Crazy Wraiths, but to the whole damn neighborhood. Something that will find its way to Mr. Hands, wherever he is, and his whole band of filchers. Something that will make even Don Croleone take notice. Something that will let every varmint in earshot know that Shmool is mad, Shmool is clamping down, and there will be no more pooping in Shmool's water.

So last weekend, I put together a bold and complex plan that was, really, brilliant — intricate, elegant, and I must say, beautiful. A story to be remembered for generations, if it came off right. But this scheme required extra muscle, precise timing, and a lot of careful coordination. So on Sunday I called a council of war. I put out the word that all who are loyal to the cause or interested in a piece of the action were to gather at my fortress and receive their orders.

I must say I was impressed with the response. Naturally, the Melodious Freckled Lady and Fabio's Doorman arrived ready and able, hardy stalwarts that they are. The keepers of Babalulu the Mutant Terrier and Chompsky the Tuxedoed Ballboy also came, thankfully leaving those smelly waggers at home (I hadn't factored Balu's Insane Bullwhip Tail into my plan, nor would it be necessary to have any spit-marinated spheroids retrieved, but thanks anyway).

Many others answered the call: the insane but generous Bobo The Nose sent a couple representatives, and a coterie from the Woman's League of Amazons also volunteered, including one Very Small Man who, though drooly, seemed quite nimble and alert — finally, a human of dimensions I can work with.

The Woman prepared caviar. The tall Leaguers brought pungent fish bits. Excellent. The Man served drinks, and the Rodent even put on a tie. Well, this was turning out to be a contingent of true loyalists. You can't buy this kind of respect. OK people, let's get to work.

Then the Man raised his glass and offered a convocational toast to “Operation Oscar”. Oscar? What a stupid name. I had codenamed this scheme “Operation Eviscerate” — but a good general knows when to throw his troops a bone, so whatever. “Oscar” it is. Now pay attention, people. First, the Doorman will take his position up this tree on the south perimeter, exactly twelve hours before we strike, and you there, uh, Redhead, you will place blocks of cheese here... and here. Meanwhile, you tall people take two thousand rubber bands apiece, and the little guy here...

Suddenly I realized I was talking to myself. These people weren't listening to me — they were still sucking on their cocktails and slurping down caviar. They were staring at the big box, and chuckling. Chuckling!

Wake up, people! Let's do this thing!

The Man made another round of drinks. The Woman brought more food. The Very Small Man blew bubbles. I marched into the center of the room and bellowed for order. Nothing. Then suddenly, gunfire! Ambush! I bolted for cover, rolled evasively, came up with claws and fangs at the ready. It's a hit squad!

But no. The Man had merely popped the cork on a huge bottle of fizzy water. Useless, useless people.

I retired to my inner sanctum to rework my plan for one. And I left something special in one of the coats I found on the bed. Not sure whose — but they'll get the message when they find it.