My brother, the whoopee cushion

The welcome advent of Spring brings with it troubling revelations — and as usual, when the hand of trouble pokes its sinister finger into this corner of the world, it pokes first at the gelatinous underbelly of the blob that is my brother.

The warmth and light of this season are great allies, for they not only bring foliage and cover back to my field of operation, but also rouse succulent miniature vermin from their foxholes, making my whole kingdom a glorious skittering pupu platter.

This time of year also brings the traditional vernal defoliative moulting cycle, which I call the sleeking, though the Woman calls it the shedding. The damgross shedding, to be precise. For some reason, she blames this natural annual cycle on some mysterious character named Herr Effre-Weir. I have not met this Herr Effre-Weir, but it's obvious he would be well-served to steer clear of the Woman — she sounds downright murderous whenever she utters his name.

But to the point. This year's sleeking has revealed what was previously concealed by the lushness of our winter fatigues — namely, the insidious effects of the Uncanny Meat Project on my poor idiot brother.

Fabio looks positively deflated. His loose belly hangs from him like a marsupial's pouch. It drags on the floor when he walks, sweeping up little piles of loose hair that cling pathetically to his feet like tumbleweeds. When he sits, gravity pulls the loosened flab down to his buttocks such that he resembles an emaciated bobcat sitting in a large bowl of sleeping ferrets. When he lies down, his pelt spreads out and pools about him like a enormous melting pat of furry butter.

What sinister purpose lurks behind this twisted experiment remains unrevealed. And as to the involvement of the nefarious Dr. Fingerer, well, right now, everyone is a suspect. Even the Rodent, who stands vigil at the bathroom door each day when Fabio is locked up with the mystery slurry.

As for myself, I can happily report that I remain vital, solid, and strong — clearly unaffected by any secondary exposure to the canned sludge of pseudoscience. But I calculate that if my brother continues to diminish at his current rate, by mid-summer he will be a fur pancake with a diameter approximating the dimensions of a queen-size bed. The question is, for whose bed?

Mister, I AM the Law

So, the Law thought he could come to Hacienda del Gato Negro. Thought he could ride in, in all his prim trappings and button-down respectability, and watch the local chieftains step aside. Thought we'd dutifully yield the thoroughfare to the dignity of his office. Thought wrong, is what he did.

The Law came to town in the face of a tall white-and-orange character, fluffy but not weak, groomed but not soft, clean but not wet behind the ears. Handsome. Strong. Gallant. Credible. He moved quietly and deliberately, and he always worked out in the open, in the middle of the street and in full daylight — observant, well-mannered, and apparently fearless. His only weakness: his faith in his badge.

His name was Marshal White Twerp, and the sun shone brightly the day he tried to clean up Fort Shmool.

Marshal Twerp and I had met before — a couple of scuffles and skirmishes over right-of-way on the fencetop boardwalks. A few growled threats and taut standoffs, a pawful of belligerent slashes and swipes. But he never overplayed his hand, never let a twitching tail betray his thinking. A very steady, cool customer, this one.

He was smart enough to keep off my property, but I'd often find him waiting for me on the neighboring lot, or down the street a piece — always on some stretch of neutral ground, always open terrain. One thing I knew, this guy wasn't going to bushwhack me from concealment. When it came down to it, I knew he'd be easy to find, he'd be facing me, and he'd be ready.

Yesterday, the showdown finally came. The clouds broke and the bright sun bathed the damp ground, lifting a still, portentous mist. The streets were quiet, but hardly empty — robins and crows, squirrels and cats all kept a wary watch on the vacant lot adjacent to my home turf. I was heading east down the high boardwalk when I saw White Twerp waiting straight ahead. He wasn't idly loafing — he was deliberately positioned dead in the middle of my path, sitting tall, facing me squarely, unblinking. And below, on all sides, nothing but open ground.

Without taking my eyes off him, I swiveled both ears to check behind me. I didn't know Twerp to have any deputies, but I wasn't taking any chances. The fact that he chose to meet me with my own fortifications to my back suggested that he wanted me to know this affair would be gato-a-gato.

I moved forward and looked him dead in the eye, told him to step aside. His eyes narrowed, his claws clenched, a deep, murderous growl welled up in his gullet. I didn't hesititate — I threw down.

We hit mid-air and were on the grass a second later, claws flying. I went right for his belly with my hind legs while burying my face into his neck to keep his fangs out of play. I took a good chomp at him and he screamed as we rolled into the dirt. I came up with a mouthful of white fur, and he came up limping, stunned. I let the moment linger, let the pain sink in. He cursed and hissed, and lunged for my throat with both front claws.

I stepped coolly to one side and his talons caught my collar. Hung up and hobbled, he strained desperately to pull his blades free. I just hunkered, keeping my center of gravity low, and grinning, I let him pull. With a mighty heave, my collar finally snapped and flew spinning off into the grass. The sudden release caught the lawman by surprise and threw off his balance, and he went down with all four paws outstretched and flailing. Vulnerable.

Normally, this is when I let my opponent run. A couple good slashes and a serious bite are all the average confrontation requires, and I offer the victim a chance to retreat, to get out in one piece. But not Marshal White Twerp. Not this tall, clean-cut lawman, who came strutting onto my territory and presumed to challenge me in front of the whole damned neighborhood. This day, the streets would run with blood.

Before he could even get one paw to ground, I let him have it. I laid into him, with a merciless, unrelenting ferocity I haven't felt since I was a young tough making a name on the street. These days I may be no spring chicken, but I'm here to tell you that I dealt White Twerp a legendary ass-whuppin.

White fur flew everywhere. Onlookers shrieked in horror. I went into him again and again, chomping and slashing. His claws were flying, his fangs flashing — I was sure he was tearing me up something awful in his desperate frenzy, but I wasn't taking a fraction of what he was getting.

As soon as I saw his eyes go punch-drunk, I pulled his bruised, bloodied carcass over on top of me, squared all four legs into his belly, and kicked with every last bit of strength, flinging him skyward. Every head in the neighborhood, fowl and feline alike, followed the pitiful arc of his limp form tumbling head-over-heels into the nearest bush. Growling and moaning in a half-conscious daze, the marshal pulled himself up, spat blood, and hobbled into the shadows. Into the darkness. Out of the light.

It took a few moments for the pain to come. Soreness in the legs, the jaw, the neck. I didn't flinch. All eyes were on me now, so I turned with purpose and limped back to my fortress. Once inside, I made my way to a low cushion, one bathed in healing sunlight, and took a long, gratifying nap.

A few hours later, a Samaritan neighbor came by to give the Woman my collar, which she'd found in her back yard. I heard her tell the Woman of my great battle, of the flying fur and the screams of violence and the serious hurt I put on Marshal Twerp. I saw the Woman's eyes go wide with shock when she heard the telling of my heroic tale, and then watched the Man's eyes do the same when the Woman told him of my bold encounter.

They both checked me over thoroughly, and found not a scratch. Not one bite, not one gash. Nothing. Just white fur in my mouth, dirt on my back, and blood on my claws. Brave Marshal Twerp hadn't landed a single blow. The Man and Woman seemed concerned, seemed unnerved, but there was no hiding what I heard in their voices as they discussed the day's violence: Respect. When they refastened my collar around my neck, it was with all the reverence of a military decoration.

As for White Twerp, or what's left of him, I'm sure he'll heal up and someday be back in business. But I promise you he'll be the ugliest bastard on the block.

No accounting for taste

This weekend, a delegation of the Man's progenitors descended upon my fortress — and promptly holed themselves up within the tested walls of my newly refurbished bunker. So I assume they came seeking refuge and protection from something. They did have the reek of unclean, long-haired, belly-in-the-dirt farmcats on them, so could be they were on the run from a pack of feral hairballers.

I am not a for-hire bodyguard, nor am I running a safehouse here, but I've learned that I can tolerate these particular interlopers for short durations, as they're more or less quiet, respectful types and they keep the Rodent occupied.

The Old Man at least made himself useful, applying sealant compounds to the hatch linings within the bunker (another layer of invulnerability added to my fortifications). He later distributed an excessively oily bread-cheese morsel to the Rodent, presumably so as to test the integrity of these new seals against canine flatulence — not the bunker’s primary function, but a welcome modification. I do admire thoroughness in craftsmanship.

The chatty one they call Grahamaa spent most of her time assisting the Woman in her laboratory, which is unfortunate — I have learned that if I can isolate her from the others, this Grahamaa character is highly suggestible when it comes to renegotiating pellet dispersal. She is particularly susceptible to the repeated plaintive meows of my starvation ruse.

Later, while the Man and Old Man monitored games of fetch on the big box (these simpletons are far too easily entertained), the Woman and Grahamaa brought the gassy Rodent into my bedroom and invited themselves onto my bed, where they proceeded to watch some five-hour talkie entitled J. Nausten's Pride In Prunejuice. Grahamaa repeatedly mooned over some poor fellow with the unfortunate and repugnant name of Colon Filth.

Still, five hours of Colon Filth proved more interesting than watching two grown men slurp yellow water and stare at a simple game of fetch played on an interminable loop.

Culturally speaking, this fortress of mine has not exactly turned out to be a citadel of refinement.