Monday, January 12, 2009

My Life as Norman Whiskers: Jackpot, My Friends

It happens, and doesn't hurt a bit. I die and go to heaven. This utopia is called Christie House. My Lady is the queen of this place, and all subjects heed her rules by the count of three, (rules do not seem to apply to the human called Milk Man). A gourmet chef creates my meals, and the kills are shrunk into bite-size pellets called "Science Diet." When I empty the bowl, my Lady fills it up again if I ask like a gentleman. Simply amazing.

My Lady has not brought up the subject of my outburst in ENGLISH, but several times a day since that blunder I catch her staring at me in a peculiar fashion. Then she hurries to a cabinet and pulls out a medicine bottle, studying the label intently. I would call this phase of her discovery of my magical ability: DENIAL. She thinks she has gone mad and is afraid to tell the Milk Man. It's just as well. Hopefully, she will not reveal my trick to the vet, Dr. Adams. (I have mixed feelings about this human at first, when he laughs and labels me a "fat fellow" at our initial meeting, but I'll let his rude comment slide, since his recommendation is to feed me as much as I like. Good call, Doctor Adams, I won't carve my new name in your arm, after all.)

While exploring the upstairs human sleeping quarters, I come across the most astonishing, mouthwatering discovery. The child-lady, my governess, lets me wander in her chamber so long as I do not eat her Barbies. I assure her that I will do no such thing, as I am domesticated. Once inside my governess's room, I spot the oasis. My friends, only in my sweetest dreams have I imagined this scene: a miniature Victorian house containing a family of mice. ASTOUNDING JACKPOT!

While my governess is singing songs and twirling in circles, I grab the patriarch of the mouse house and take him to my lair under the bathroom sink. There, I question him and compose a ransom note. Then, growing impatient, I gnaw on his head. However, this mouse is quite resilient. He does not utter a squeak, nor does his flesh undergo the slightest damage. I must investigate this anomaly to find out why I am unable to torture and eat this rodent. Am I getting soft living amid so much cat finery in the Christie House? Anyhow, I will keep the father mouse as my hostage to hold up my Italicreputation as a bad @$$ street cat.


-Norman Whiskers

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.


Loren Christie

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