Cat Chronicles

Something about this morning is different; there is something critical I seem to be forgetting here. Shrugging I add more milk to my deluxe bowl of frost flaked Cheerios, a breakfast for champions. Carefully helping myself to each spoon to avoid dripping any milk on my new suit for 2009 I read the day’s paper cheerfully. Something about the Siberian Tiger being close to extinction, why does that ring a bell, some cow webs in my mind are stirred.

Then I notice my front door slightly ajar. Of course!!!

It hits me like an MSN nudge, I am supposed to be taking care of my girlfriend’s Stacey Peruzzi’s cat Picasso this week. She dropped it off last night before she left for her trip to New York, and it probably just walked right out of the house when I went to get the newspaper. Running out of the house like a mad man I scramble past the lawn and out to the road. Looking around the only thing I see are Mr. Wilson’s two Alsatians out for a walk. Those dogs of his are brutal killers, I once saw them rip a wombat into two, if they get their mangy paws on Picasso its going be cat heaven for him. And hell for me. After I accidentally broke Stacey’s nose last week I don’t think killing her cat is going to put the light back into our strained relationship.

I also notice that Miss Sherwood is out with her Rottweiler Arnold, another brutal dog. Come to think of this neighborhood of mine is filled with vicious dogs; it’s like the Alcatraz of dog world, with the meanest and most deadly dogs living on this row. Not a good place for a cat that’s named after a womanizing painter.

I run frantically around looking for Picasso. This cat is the bane of my existence right now, if don’t find him soon its game over. I hear mewing in a huge dumpster behind the alley. Reluctantly crawling in with my 2000 dollar suit on I end up in a pile of garbage with an angry black Tom Cat that proceeds to scratch my face mercilessly. Not Picasso for sure.

Neither is Picasso in the neighborhood park, nor any of the bus stops (he might have tried to leave town!), or anyone’s backyard (although I stumbled upon a weird costume party of some sort) or any other nook or cranny that I went through. Finally coming home sweaty, bloody, with a damaged suit and smelling of refuse, I crawl back in defeat. Stacey is going to leave me when she finds out I lost her cat.

I lie down flat on my living room carpet and look up at the ceiling in abject depression. Sighing I turn to my side.

Only so see Picasso rolled up and sleeping comfortably on his Super HealthGuard Pet Bed, a deluxe pet bed like no other, featuring protection from fleas, bacteria, mould, dust mite and mildew, a comfortable slice of heaven for your pets.

So while the furry feline was resting in luxury I was going through hell and back looking for him.

I hate cats.

Nudging Picasso over, I take a lie down with him in his bed. He curls up right beside me and we catch a cat nap.