Good with words

Fear... distractions.... the efforts of a self-employed writer to pay the mortgage.... all that jazz.

Monday, November 14, 2005

My Story: the Demon Tabby gets a slot

'Twas a cold November night, and all was quiet at the cottage. That damned runt of a cat was loitering in the grass as if it owned the joint, and I'd had it up to my back teeth. "Sam", I said to the Siamese, "Tonight's the night I teach that cat a lesson. Who does she think she is? Strutting around, jumping on my roofs, drinking from my puddles, stamping right on my dignity. I've gotta make an example outta her if it's the last thing I do."

She was sitting right on top of the shed at the bottom of the garden, licking her paw like she was Cleopatra. But I had the element of surprise. Boom! There I was, on the tiles right behind her. 'Hello, Princess,' I growled, and she leapt onto the lawn. In hot pursuit, we raced across the grass and over the moonlit path.

She darted through the open door and into the cottage, which was quiet indeed. I followed with a whisper of anticipation, but then she struck with her secret weapon: the thing they call Steve.

All at once the water was on me, hot and blinding, more'n you can picture, but I've been locked out in the rain more times than I can count, so I struggled on. Through the first room and onto the staircase, with the she-cat getting a good lead on me. Suddenly a second attack was launched - more water, worse than a rainstorm, and even more in my eyes. It was too much - not even a dog could take it - so I turned, and went valiantly for the door, realising it was my only chance to avoid certain death - and then I was free, on the lawn, and I kept going.

Like the old saying goes, a tabby scorned is a tabby hellbent on revenge... I'll be back... and next time with backup.


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