Wednesday, January 28, 2009
My Life As Norman Whiskers: Fear and Loathing in the Attic
"BORRRRRRRRRRING!" I purr, running to the window. An eerie fog is rolling across the yard and the snow is turning to slush.
"I will return to the attic, DIRECTLY!" I shout.
The little dwarf child laughs in his mesh box. My Lady feeds him cereal only when he is confined in the box, or strapped down to a chair. He must be very wild.
I check the whereabouts of the rest of the humans before I set off on my expedition to the unknown realm of the Christie house. My governess is curled up on my Lady's lap snoring when I venture up the old staircase to the bedroom chambers, stepping gingerly to avoid the floorboards that creak. She's dreaming of romps in a tutu no doubt, silly girl.
I glide up the attic steps and slip through the ceiling hatch, like the stud human in The Borne Identity.
That's when I spot two bright yellow-green eyes glowing in the darkness, illuminating a heart-shaped tag marked with the words "Scutch the Butcher," followed by a phone number that I will not repeat here.
"Hello, chap," I stutter. "I come exploring from the lower floors. I want no trouble. Are you a cat?"
The strange transparent creature does not answer, but also, does not purr. A stinging hiss cuts through the silence and I jump back.
"Steady now, chum. I'm leaving. Cheerio!" I leap toward the ceiling hatch, but the beast suddenly faces me. I close my eyes and wait for a death blow.
"Do yous haz... meatz?!" He growls.
I cringe, eyes still shut, and shake my head, NO!
"I beleevez thaz youse iz lying cat. Meow handz over dat meatz youse bought mez, or Eyes gonna make a ded cat fer newz paperz."
"Now, please, Mr. uh, ...um," I pause and remember the tag. "Please Mr. Butcher, I do not have meat, and I certainly do not wish to disturb you. So I will be going..."
"Silenz cat who talkz lyke Tony Blair! Eyes duh KING up here-z. Used to bees homelez cat. Loved my Ladyz and her Milks Man tilz Eye dye. Now Eyes duh ghostus guardz cat of Christie houze. So getz booty downz dare an getz mez cheezeburger or chickenz wingz, extraz bloody-Q sauze. Hurry ups!"
With that the ghastly ghost cat opens the ceiling hatch, grabs me by the tail with his very realistic teeth, and hurls me down the attic stairs. I run until I reach the kitchen, quite out of breath, right into the governess' Mary Janes, (a type of shoe). Awake from her nap and armed with a box of tissues, she is apparently well enough to resume my lessons.
"Mr. Whiskers! I'm looking for you right now because it is time for your cooking class. I am your teacher." She explains, with a swooping hand gesture of introduction, as if I don't know this.
She demands my attention as she prepares plastic vegetable soup. I shudder to think what Mr. Butcher the ghost cat will do to me if I do not return with a cheeseburger. As I look off to the right of the mini-kitchen, I have an idea.
"Genius!" I shout, swiping a plastic cheeseburger from the floor and running to my bed, to stash it. Tonight after all are sleeping I will bring it to the ghost, as I very much indeed value each and every one of my nine lives.
Dear Internet Traveler,
Welcome to my writer's blog, started about six years ago for fun. Over time, the writing I have posted has ranged from personal reflection, to Long Island history research, to tall tales for my own amusement, to feature articles for local newspapers. As you can see from topics listed here, I travel in many mental directions in regard to interests. Click on the tabs and labels to explore my strange mind which senses that you may be having a criss-cross day. If so, perhaps this blog will distract you. However, please note that if you tell me my blog is beautiful just to get me to advertise rhinoplasty surgery and cheap drugs from Canada in your comment, I will ask the gods to give you a tail that cannot be concealed.