Something tells me that I just might have strayed a little bit too far from that niche behind the base of the wardrobe in the hall. I’m starting to realize that if I had only kept to myself back there among the dust bunnies and waited until the darkest hours of early morn, I wouldn’t be stranded out here right now, wearing a cat’s forefoot as a toupee and a surprised — not to say shocked — expression on my measly mousey mug.
Well — not to panic. I’ve got time to do some careful cogitating on how to deftly extricate myself unharmed from this particularly precarious predicament.
Y’see: Robespierre Redfern — he of the constraining tabby-striped limb, slightly damp paw, and dainty feline claws — is actually far more fond of playing around with his prey than with dispatching them to that Great Rodent Den in the Sky. So no matter what happens, perhaps the worst I’m looking forward to is a few hours of being batted about the foyer like some furry jai alai pelota.
Or maybe he’s got the same fate in mind for me as he had for that squeaky spongy polka-dotted critter that the Lady of the House happened to bring home last week: an afternoon of slobbery gnawing and gnashing, with no serious puncture wounds. (But, gawd, how I hate smelling like kitty saliva for days on end! It’s such an embarrassing give-away once one is back among the clan.)
Speaking of the clan, where in the world did they all manage to scatter to so quickly. Why, it was but a split second ago that Angelina Ballerina was flanking me on the right, prattling on about some new satin ribbon she’d found. Man, she sure disappeared in a hurry! Guess endlessly practicing all those en pointes and arabesques makes you pretty supple and fast on all fours when you wanna be.
And what of that grinning Mickey, with the silly yellow shoes and all his high-pitched happy talk? Think he’d stick around when the going gets rough? Yeah, right. If it’s not singing or dancing or cute antics or happy endings, the guy’s vapor. (I don’t care what they say about that Sorcerer’s Apprentice shtick.)
Give me some tough cookies at a time like this. You know, guys that know how to handle themselves around a tough tabby or two. Guys like Jerry, or Itchy. Or even Mighty, for that matter. Now they could help me deal with RR in a heartbeat. Frying pan, vacuum cleaner, chain saw, drapery cord, bird cage, dynamite, bowling ball, tablecloth, family dog, tennis racket, vase full of flowers, butcher knife, broom, cue ball — those guys could certainly come up with one handy household prop or another to turn the tables on my nemesis.
Or am I gonna have to wait around to be rescued by that simpering dandy, Stuart Little? Yeah, I know the guy’s smart, and it’s true he’s the most anthropomorphized of any of us, but the Ivy League degree, the fedora and that goofy checkered vest really put me off! (And don’t even get me started on the red roadster convertible!)
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