Norman Whiskers in Macbeth (Complete Story)

Macbeth (sort of)

starring: Norman Whiskers AND Hell Hound

(Dedicated to the Meowers of Missouri and their damnbrowndawg. William Shakespeare, forgive me, I’m a big fan of you.)

Scroll down for Part II and III.)

It was a foul day, indeed. The rain-snow was pelting the window pane with the kind of clattering noise that makes a cat lament the winter-time. I left my chenille perch in the porch to seek a distraction for my woes.

Then I spied them. Three curious creatures, with fins and large unblinking eyes. I leaped onto the kitchen counter. (Don’t mention that to my Lady.) There I posed like a statue waiting and watching the weird three Treats sliding behind glass like crazy cookies with eyeballs and lips.

“Speak ugly, but, I bet yummy, Snacks, if you can! I am not afraid of you,” I called to them.

They answered me in a gurgle. Then suddenly, the disk-like one spoke!

Fish 1: All hail, Norman, hail to thee, Boss of the downstairs bath.

“Yes, well, that’s all very fine and good. I already know that. Big Deal.” I said.

Next a tiny one, streaked in neon red zoomed up to the glass.

Fish 2: “All hail, Norman, hail to thee, Favorite Creature of the Christie House!”

“Hmm, Alright, this may also be true, my weird cat toys, but it is nothing new! What else?”

Then a great big orange one with whiskers like me poppeth out of a cave. I jumped back in terror.

Fish 3: "All hail, Norman, thou shalt be the ONLY PET at Christie House hereafter!”

Now we're getting somewhere, Yummy Friends!

“Stay! Darting, finned snacks! Speak some more! I know I am Boss of the downstairs bath, and my Lady’s favorite creature, but the only creature hereafter? What will become of Hell Hound? Is she to meet a sad fate? Are you members of Homeland Security? Who conveyed to you this strange intelligence?”

That t’was the moment I was removed from the counter by my Lady’s arm, and deposited on a chair. With a thrill of excitement my cat brain raced, wondering when the prediction of the slimy soothsayers would occur.

Macbeth...Part II.

Norman Whiskers: Strange things are circling in my cat head, like so many feathers waiting to be swatted. Rocks will be rocks and cats will be cats. I fear a bad spell is upon me.

Lo! Here I go on the hunt for blood and perhaps, a piece of discarded tuna fish sandwich. (Starkist in water, not oil please).

The sauce to meat in my canned cat dinner is just ceremony...I plan to do a deed tonight in my first step towards asserting my power as The Only Pet Hereafter! This should be child's play-The Fish-es are correct in predicting my upcoming GRANDEUR! My only foe is that Hell Hound (whom Mr. Putz loves).

But Alas, what is this I see?

Three mice-es who challenge my authority!


Take any shape, such as the armed rhinoceros, or rabid squirrel. I will not tremble in fear! I am a man cat. Thou shalt mess not with me!

Watch me knocketh thee down from thy silly wooden house! Now I shall tie you up with string and watch thee whimper in jolly human clothes. Take that, sorry foes!

Behold, thou art stunned and stiff as corpses. I have slain thee with the strength of my piercing glare.

Princess: (gasp) NORMAN WHISKERS! WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO MY MOUSE HOUSE AND MY MOUSE FAMILY?

Norman Whiskers: Pray, sit you still, mice. Here is my little governess, the princess, come to late to save you.

Princess: MAMA! Norman is KILLing my MOUSE FAMILY and TRASHing my TOY HOUSE!"

Loren: (from kitchen) "NORMAN!"

Norman Whiskers: Unfortunate folly, my Lady calls me away! I will take refuge under the bathroom sink until such a time presents itself that I will to the weird fish-es a-gain go. For now I am bent on knowing what shall become of me. I will shred my scratch post in contemplation.

Cheerio!


Part III. Macbeth- Finale

Norman: Out, out damn spot. Melikes my paws sparkling clean. Alas! What has become of me, I wonder? By frightening my little governess, the Princess, I fear that I am quite savage. To the fish-es I will go, for only these three slippery ones make sense of why I am a plastic mouse MURTHERER!

(Approaching the fish tank)

I conjure you, weird fish-es. Speaketh! Show me thy power and shareth the love with mE!

Fish#1: Norman! Norman! Beware the one who speaketh ruff, ruff, and such. He that hath eaten a flip phone will challenge you!

Fish #2: Give him the egg of a Cad-burd-ee. See him swoon! Show him the coco bean to meet his DOOM!

Norman: YES fish-es. I understand!

Fish #3: Your courage shall be screwed to the sticking place, (literally). Norman! Hereafter, thou shalt be King of the sea in Christie house!

Norman: Hooray! Fish-es. Hold! Take my sword, or claws will do.

Look there, Methinks I see the sheep biter feasting on the bone of some unfortunate vagabond.


Hey you man, Hell Hound!

Hell Hound: yummy,o, yum,yumm,yum,yum...

Norman: Foolish mutt! I challenge thee to a duel!

Hell Hound: yum,yum,yum,yum,yum...

Norman: OH HORROR! HORROR, I say!

Hell Hound: HUH? What's wrong now whiny cat who persistently tries to murther me?

Norman: Why, Hell Hound, old chum. Dear, wonderful soft and furry pup! My (HACK!) wonderful sister pet, I have a gift for thee. Tis a token of my deep affection. A peace offering for Easter. I've given up trying to harm-eth thee for Lent. Come, Feast your eyes on this!

(Norman pushes a six pack of Cadbury chocolate eggs with caramel filling in front of the dog.)

Hell Hound: Here's a treasure, indeed! Thanks cat! (mmm,yum,yum,yum...)

Hell Hound collapses in a chocolate swoon.

Norman: (aside) Methinks he is dead. O, yet, I do not feel all that bad. NOW I AM THE ONLY...

Hell Hound: (stirring) HACK! AAAAAAAAAAAK!

Norman: (Hit by a goo ball) Woe! Alas! I fear a plague has struck me dead! I am full of regurgitated Cad-burd-ee! MEOW!!!!

Loren: Norman? Oh wow, the dog got sick. I'm sorry, now you need a bath!

Norman: (clawing the walls of the bath tub) What is amiss? A BATH?! This can not be! The good fish-es said my Lady that I would be KING of the ....sea in the Christie house!

In the words of the great Homer Simpson: D'oh! Blast those fibbing fish-es!


(Flourish. Exeunt omnes.)

My Men Enjoy The Weekend Newspapers

Stefunkc brings up such a good point in a comment on this post about the weekend papers getting out of hand. They do tend to pile up in my house, too. It's a waste if you don't read them.

I only read the New York Post because I'm partial to the creative headlines. Many people call the New York Post a tabloid because of the outrageous pictures and gossip-like articles. This is why I read it. I get the news, and I get to laugh. A New York Post reporter came to my door once and I told him I'm the biggest fan of the Post in the world. He said "God bless you."

Any newspaper is going to slant the facts anyway. I don't think they teach journalism students to report impartially anymore. It's very hard to find a news source, on television or in print, that is not slanted. So, for me, eating bagels and reading the New York Post is fun on a Saturday morning.

The other papers, like Newsday, get scattered all over the house. On Mondays I go around collecting all of the papers and throwing them out. When we were first married I had a birdcage that I would line with faces of politicians and celebrities who irked me in that weekend's newspapers. After eight days of staring at Hillary Clinton in a peach pants suit, my parakeet flew into the side of the cage wall and broke its neck. Don't tell PETA. I still feel guilty about that. ;)

My New Diabolical Plan to Rid the World of Hell Hound

Hello Cyber Friends,

I was just sitting here, thinking. Not to be redundant, but something really has to be done about that dog, Hell Hound. My lady won't chat with me today since she is busy brooding over Milk Man's hard cover book that came in the mail. It's a published dissertation or something. I can read English and I believe it states on page one that he can be a veterinarian in some states. My lady is jealous/proud of him and admits that this feeling is completely evil in nature. (I love that she sometimes feels evil.) She just shared her premonition that Hell Hound is sure to get published next. Come to think of it, this idea depresses me, also. I must rid the world of that hound today!

"Are you having a criss-cross day, my lady?" I shout as she passes me in the dining room.

"No, Norman. Get off my table," she snaps, sliding me until no wood appears beneath me, and I fall to the floor.

"Me-ouch! That was harsh," I mutter, glancing down at today's edition of The New York Post that is spread on the floor beside the table.

That's when I see it: the article I've been praying for.

Savage Beagles Terrorize East End!

The story describes feral Beagles running loose in the suburbs, attacking people trying to enter their homes.

"These floppy-eared terrors are no lovable Snoopys - they're abandoned hunting dogs that live in packs and have gone from humble pets to hounds from hell!"

"Be careful, these animals are trained killers!" I read aloud, unable to contain my excitement. This, my friends, I dare-say, is precisely why I love the ever-informative, intuitive publication, the New York Post.

"Excuse me, Hell Hound. Wake up! Listen here, fat chap! It's urgent. President Obama has risen the terror alert to magenta- the highest Shade of Worry for Hell Hounds!"

The dog raises her head, groggy from a mid-morning nap. She stretches and yowls in a most unbecoming manner.

"Yes, Sergeant, Sir!" she yaps, bouncing and dragging her rear on the rug, because I told her my lady thinks that is endearing! ;)

"You must spend the whole day outside in the yard. There is a pack of PETA haters running rampant in town, and you must protect the family!"

Hell Hound trots out the back door and I push it closed behind her with a swipe of my tail. Then I go to the back window to watch (with glee) the decimation of Hell Hound.

About two hours later I see the pack of crazed dogs approaching the yard. One by one they jump the fence and surround Hell Hound, who whimpers and rolls on her back.

I open the window a crack and shout:

"Good job protecting the turf, Horace Hound!"

My eyes narrow to two mail slots as the pack closes in on her. Then, something quite awful happens.

The largest Beagle yells "STOP!"

"Mama?" yelps Hell Hound.

"Baby Hell Hound! I always knew I'd find you someday. You are a great dog, a descendant, in fact, of Checkers, First Dog of the White House under President Nixon!"

"Really mom? Oh wow! Imagine that. For so long I've been trying to do great things. I wanted so badly to be First dog, but President Obama didn't pick me."

"That, my daughter (whom everyone mistakes for a boy), is because he knows that you come from a long line of Republican dogs. My pack and I have to leave now. Jorge just got a tip on his Blackberry that the dog catcher is two blocks away. Take care, Hell Hound."

As the two beasts sniff noses, I fall off the window ledge, whining.

"WHAAAT! Oh, Sorry day! I can't believe Hell Hound didn't get mauled. I can't believe she is a famous creature descended from Checkers the dog- after all! Another plan, foiled! I'm a failure. Who has ever heard of ME- Norman Whiskers a.k.a Bigotes Grande etc.? I am a cat without a grand accomplishment, a kitty with no legacy to speak of! In the very least, I should be able to outwit a dog!"

Just then, my little governess' big Mary Janes appear in front of my face.

"Well, Mr. Whiskers, many cats have been outsmarted throughout history - there's Tom and Jerry, Garfield and Odie, my mommy and daddy..."

"Stop! Little Governess- Princess! I can't bare this lesson anymore."

"Oh, Mr. Whiskers! Are you having a criss-cross day?" asks the Princess. I sprint away from her with a "Hmph!"

I spend the rest of the morning on my Lady's lap, brooding.

Cheerio :(

Norman Whiskers

A Christie Pet Christmas Carol

Dude Where Am I? Presents:

A Christie Pet Christmas Carol

(based on A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens, who is rolling in his grave right now at this adaptation.)

Part I.

Scutch the Butcher Cat was dead, to begin with, for seven years since the birth of the first Christie child. Hell Hound knew he was dead, although every so often a cat tail would hover past the threshold of a room and retreat up the stairs to the second floor, or a sharp-toothed grin would appear in a dark corner. Was it a figment of Hell Hound's imagination? Perhaps it was a clump of undigested grass, or the dirty diaper she snatched from the garbage affecting her stomach.

"Rrr HumRug!" She growled.

"I'll believe in ghosts when dogs can whistle," she barked, smugly.

Besides, what would old Scutch want with me now? She wondered.

In life Hell Hound did not fear the great stray cat that the Christie family saved when they moved in. In fact, he had been her first furry adopted mother, teaching her the ropes of domesticated pet life, Yoda cat style.

"Young Hell Hound," he'd hiss, "The number one goal of your life should always be: GET MEATZ!"

Hell Hound learned this lesson well, becoming a master thief. She took a stuffed toy from a Christie child at least once a week in hopes that MEATZ might be discovered inside it. She helped herself to what was in the garbage pail when she thought no one was watching. She stole the roast beasts for several Christie feasts. This is how she became a Hell Hound, cursed by all Christies, but loved, nonetheless.

Loved so well was this Hell Hound, that the prayer of the littlest Christie of all, Baby Bigfoot, at dinner one evening, sparked angels in pet heaven to take action.

After the family had said prayers full circle, Baby Bigfoot folded his hands and added,

"and no take mine cookies, bad puppy! Amen"

A gust of brisk air ruffled Hell Hound's coat at the sound of the little voice, and she looked up, thinking a steak may have dropped from the table.

Outside, Hell Hound double checked the contents of her secret stash. Two kidnapped stuffed toys, a chewed wallet, an old cell phone and a police badge she found on the lawn were still intact behind a drain pipe near the side of the house.

Scutch appeared suddenly, in full form, and tapped her on the shoulder.

"Hell Hound!" He wailed.

The dog spun around as fast as her chubby body could turn and barked. Upon discovering it was her old mentor, Scutch the Butcher cat, in ghost form, she rolled on her back in submission, whimpering,

"What do you want with me, flea bitten spirit?"

"Meow!" Scutch howled. "In life I was your mentor, Scutch the Butcher cat. I became the toughest stray in the neighborhood, stealing meatz from barbecues in all of these yards. When your lady domesticated me, I did not learn my lesson. I taught you my bad habits when you were an impressionable puppy and now you're a Hell Hound dog! Oh, MEOW!" the specter cat whined.

Hell Hound shivered.

"But, Mr. Butcher, you took me under your wing. You were always good at the business of securing meatz."

Scutch screeched even louder.

"MEATZ! MEATZ? Gratitude is a pet's business! I should not have taught you to steal food and toys from the children. Once I was adopted by your lady I had no need to continue my stray cat ways, and I should have never have passed them to you. There is no rest for me now. I roam this property wishing I could return and change my reputation." the cat cried.

A long chain of missing objects and meat bones appeared and encircled the cat. It wrapped him tightly and lifted him up into the atmosphere, where a multitude of wailing specter cats appeared. Then Scutch spun off into the evening sky, hovering near the Christie windows with a look of longing and regret.

"You will be visited by some pet ghosts. Expect the first tonight. The time has come for puppies to whistle, Hell Hound! Heed my words. If you do not stop stealing food, you will die of obesity," warned the cat, and then he was gone.

"Rrrr Rumbug!" growled Hell Hound. Then she sneezed.

Hell Hound trotted back into the house at the sound of her lady's call. In the den, a frightful sight on the television made her stop in her tracks.

Photo Credits: Not many pics exist of Scutch, so the first cat image is a close look-alike taken from Yahoo Flickr, and the second is from lolcats. There is a real picture of Scutch in my photobucket pictures at the bottom of this blog.
Whistling Puppy @ Yahoo! Video

A Christie Pet Christmas Carol continued...

Part II. The Ghost of Christmas Past

When the clock struck midnight that evening, Hell Hound was lying on the floor next to her Lady’s bed, her tummy rumbling incessantly. So she got up to go search for a snack. On her way toward the staircase she saw the door to the upstairs bathroom slightly ajar. A white sparkling light was fanning out from the crack.

Score! She thought. Old Princess Leah’s food will be at my access.

So Hell Hound pushed the door wide open with her snoot. The room was certainly bright, but something was odd. The window was open, for starters, and the room was freezing. Large, heavy snowflakes were falling outside.

Hell Hound sniffed the closet. The old cat’s food was gone. Then she looked for the hidden litter box, where the cat stashes the dog delicacy snack, but the box was gone too.

This is very strange. Hell Hound thought, opening a dresser drawer.

Although she could faintly smell the old cat, the drawer was empty.

Hell Hound walked back into the hall and let out a low, crisp bark.

“Leah!”

Where could she be? The old girl was blind, crazy and very sick. She could not have gone far, but why were her things missing?

The dog was sitting in the middle of the bathroom sniffing the air in order to find clues to this mystery, when the door shut briskly. Then a ball of light whizzed past her nose and tickled it a bit.

Hell Hound fell into a sneezing fit, but out of the corner of her eye she could make out a cat’s tail and feet, literally pushing off of walls and bouncing in a kind of game. The dog cowered in fear. Surely, this ball of energy could not be old Princess Leah! The creature finally hit the bathroom mirror and fell into the sink. Hell Hound peered into the sink to check it out and gasped.

“Hello, Hell Hound,” whispered the voice of a little girl. A young Princess Leah cat was curled up there, her coat soft and smooth again, her eyes glowing and sharp.

“Leah, HOW did you change? Are you a spirit?” Hell Hound asked, shaking slightly.

“Yes, I think so, and I am forever YOUNG!” Princess Leah seemed to levitate over the sink, and in an instant she was flying around the room again bouncing off of walls, leaving small footprints that slowly dissipated like pixie dust. She stopped at the window and stared out longingly.

Hell Hound inched closer. “HOW did this happen to you and why haven’t you left yet on that ship that you always talk about?”

Princess Leah sighed. “I am waiting for it to pick me up and take me into the sky, but I’m afraid the snowstorm has delayed it. A messenger came to tell me that a great Lion, (my Father), is awaiting my arrival, but first he has given me an important task.”

“What is it and does it involve locating meatz, because then I can help you,” stammered Hell Hound.

“My assignment is YOU, Hell Hound. I’m to help change you into a good pet. Behold! I am made NEW again! This is the great gift of Christmas for all creation. Our souls live forever because we are all loved, and so all must be JOYOUS!”

“Oh no! Because I am naughty, I will anger the great Lion, and I will not be made new?” Hell Hound shuddered at the thought.

“No, Hell Hound. The great Lion’s compassion is beyond the understanding of all creatures in this world. He loves you no matter what you do, but sometimes your actions make Him sad. He wishes you had an attitude of gratitude, and He’s concerned about what type of impact your very important life is making here.”

“Cool, then I’ll just do what I want and get loved anyway. Did you just say that I am very important?”

The cat ignored Hell Hound’s question.

“If your conscious allows you to continue to be naughty, then you are not the puppy I remember. Let’s take a look at Christmases that have passed.”

A glittering ball of yarn encircled Hell Hound, and she was lifted up into the atmosphere and through the open window with Princess Leah the Cat, who shot through the blizzard like a furry rocket.

Hell Hound howled at the moon as they passed it. The experience was invigorating, like a car trip with one’s head completely out the window.

They landed in a pile of ribbons and bows in an apartment that Hell Hound did not recognize. Princess Leah was trilling with glee and romping in the bows.

“Where are we, Leah?” asked the dog.

“At my Lady’s first apartment on the occasion of her wedding to Milk Man. The bows were strewn all over the living room carpet when she moved in and Oh! It was cat heaven.”

The princess became so entangled in her play that she forgot Hell Hound was sitting beside her.

“Um, excuse me, but what does this have to do with me?” asked the dog.

“This is but a shadow of Christmas Past. My Past. My Past! WEE!” said the cat, rolling in the ribbons.

“But, Leah, “said the dog, gently, “I thought this story was supposed to be about me.”

The cat stopped mid flip so that a giant bow twice the size of her head balanced between her ears.

“Oh, my. That’s right. Oops! Let’s go then.”

With that Hell Hound was lifted up again and catapulted through the snow storm.

They landed back at the house that Hell Hound knew and loved, but the living room looked different. On the couch was a little puppy sleeping on his Lady’s lap.

“Why, it’s me as a pup again when my Lady and I first became friends. Oh, how sad I was to leave my brother Cupcake in the shelter, but my Lady treated me just like her baby, since she had not given birth to the human litter of Christies yet.”

Princess Leah nodded. “You needed a bath every morning because you wet your cage at night, and our Lady got up early to clean you before she had to go to work. She certainly loved you. Do you remember the couch she is sitting on, Hell Hound?” asked the cat.

“Oh yes. It is gone now.”

“What happened to it?” questioned the wise spirit.

“Um, well, I peed on the cushions, and then my Lady washed the covers and aired out the foam,” the dog remembered.

“Yes, and you ate the foam while it was drying. That made our Lady cry.”

Hell Hound dropped her head low. “Yes, and that’s when I got the nickname Hell Hound.”

“Your original name was Muffin,” the cat remembered. Hell Hound didn’t answer. A small tear appeared in the dog’s eye.

“Let’s look at another Christmas," said the cat, and they whirled off into night air once again.

This time they landed outside in the snow where Big Brother, just a toddler, was eating an apple slice.

A younger, skinnier Hell Hound shot past the child, who was bundled in layers. She swiped the apple from the little boy’s hand and left him crying on his back in the snow.

“Who is that dog?" the cat demanded. "Is she starving so much that she must steal from a baby?"

Hell Hound was silent, but her tail receded between her legs because she felt bad.
She cleared her throat and tried to explain.

“When the human puppies came along, I felt less special than I had once been in the eyes of the humans. So I started behaving spitefully.”

The cat nodded. Suddenly the scene around them melted away and they were back at the window in the upstairs bathroom.

“LOOK!” shouted the cat. “MY ship has FINALLY come! Oh, look at all the RIBBONS! Goodbye Hell Hound. I will see you again.”

The cat stepped out the window onto a rainbow that formed a bridge leading to a giant ark loaded with animals. The light in the room was sucked out with the cat, until Hell Hound was left sitting in darkness sniffing the blast of cold air left in its wake.

“Hell Hound! What are you doing in here? There is not cat food to steal anymore so go back to bed,” scolded the Lady who was standing in the bathroom doorway.

She shut the window and led the dog out of the room. Hell Hound felt a rain drop hit her head. Was there a leak in the roof? She looked up at her Lady, who was wiping her eyes and leaning down to pet her.

In Memory of Princess Leah the Cat 1995-December 19, 2009 :(

A Christie Pet Christmas Carol continued...

Part III. The Ghost of Christmas Present

Instead of listening to her Lady, Hell Hound booked down the staircase and hid under the old coffee table in the parlor. She needed some time to think about what just happened to Princess Leah, and what it could all mean. The room was not dark. On the contrary, it was bathed in light. The Christmas tree was lit in full splendor.

"MEOW HOW HOW!"

What was that strange sound, wondered the dog. Had Sant-e-dog come and caught her near the tree?

"RrrRumbug!" shouted the dog. She realized the voice could only be that of Norman Whiskers, the impostor PETA sergeant who has been plotting to kill Hell Hound since the moment of his arrival just after the new year 2009, on her Lady's birthday. Why her Lady would bring home such a present for herself was beyond the dog's understanding.


"I guess having a Hell Hound was not good enough for my Lady. She needed a Norman Whiskers too," the dog grumbled.

"Come in, Shirley Dog!" shouted the voice.


Rolling her eyes, Hell Hound stepped into the light in front of the great tree.

"My name is not ..." started the dog.

"I know who you are, Hell Hound. I just like to pull your chain. Meow How How How!"

"It's HO HO, cat. HO HO!" said the dog.

"I know, I know, my lips can't make that noise. Anyway, dog, I have to do something for you tonight, or else my tail is cooked by the great Lion. Besides, you are starting to grow on me a little. SO, I am the Magnificent Ghost of Christmas Present, come to save you from exploding."

"Exploding?" Hell Hound was confused.

Just then a pile of MEATZ appeared beneath the great cat, who was pushed up almost six feet in the air, until his crown touched the ceiling. The cat's ears pointed into the shape of horns and a mischievous grin twisted his lips.



"Eat, Hell Hound! You shall surely eat until you explode!" laughed the cat.





Hell Hound did try to eat the meatz. Indeed, it was the most fantastic pile of beef she had ever seen, and then it was gone.




















A roaring voice shook the room.




"NORMAN WHISKERS!"

"OK, OK, sorry Lion. Where was I? Oh, yes," stammered the cat.

"Grab my tail, BRUTE!" Mr. Whiskers commanded.


Hell Hound did as she was told, and closed her eyes tightly. When she opened them, Hell Hound discovered that Norman Whiskers had led her into the laundry room.

The dog sighed.

"What do you plan to do, stuff me in the dryer? I 'm too fat. Give it up, cat. I'm not going anywhere. Maybe this story should be about you and your various attempts to murder me throughout the past year."

"SHHHHHH!" scolded the cat. Then, composing himself once again, Mr. Norman Whiskers, the GREAT Ghost of Christmas Present opened his furry robe. A small black thing with a head rolled out of it and rested at the front paws of Hell Hound, who leaped back in horror.

"What the %!#*$ is that thing, cat!" yelped the dog.

Mr. Whiskers, clearing his throat, replied, "Silly dog, get thee to a pound! This is the child of all naughty dogs. His name is SOCK WANT. He exists because you steal socks."


Hell Hound recoiled in horror. The little sock cat hissed and revealed pointy teeth.

"65,433,000 socks have perished because of you, You, YOU!" hissed the little sock head.

Hell Hound covered her eyes in torment. "I'm so sorry!" she wailed.

Norman Whiskers smiled.

"Come, let us see this Christmas!" shouted the cat. With that, he snapped Hell Hound in the face with his furry robe.

When Hell Hound came to her senses, it was Christmas morning. The Christie children were opening their presents in a 4 a.m. frenzy. As little Baby Bigfoot paused at his stocking, a tear rolled down his cheek and his pink lips began to quiver.


"Spirit," tell me, "muttered the dog, "will Baby Bigfoot get his Christmas candy this year?"

The cat looked solemn. "I see an empty teddy bear stocking with his name on it," the cat said.

"NO! BAD PUPPY! EAT MINE CANDY FROM HO HO. AHHHHH!" screamed the baby.


When Hell Hound awoke, she was lying on her dog bed, crying softly. She could hear the clock striking 3 a.m. in the dining room.

With visions of her naughtiness spinning around in her brain, Hell Hound found it hard to sleep. When she closed her eyes, all she could picture were the meatballs she stole off Milk Man's dinner plate last night. Hell Hound smacked her forehead with her paw. She knew in her furry heart that the time had come for her to mellow out, and stop swiping food, but OH those meatballs were so good!

After tossing and turning for an hour, the dog decided to go outside and get some air.








The little cat playing "sock want" comes from the site icanhasacheeseburger?

A Christie Pet Christmas Carol... finale

Part IV. The Ghost of Christmas Future/Epilogue




When Hell Hound trotted out the door, she was met by the last creature on Earth she wished to see: Biggy Smalls the pigeon rap artist.


Back in 2003 Hell Hound ate Biggy's brother, and now this bird had a score to settle. Although the dog tried to step gingerly in the snow, the pigeon heard him and looked up from his book.

"HELL HOUND! What up DAWG?! Here we are...ALONE on Christmas Eve. Looks like the Great Pigeon answered my prayers tonight!"

Then, rolling up his invisible sleeves and pushing aside his gold chains, rap artist/pigeon Biggy Smalls advanced toward the dog, who gulped and started inching back in the snow.

"I'm a bout to open up a MEGA can a POLITIKAL IN KORRECTNESS on YOU, Dawg, for eatin' my brotha Clarence in 2003!"

"Hold up pigeon! Now think this through," stammered Hell Hound. "WAIT a minute...Your part in this story is SILENT! Remember? That's the rules..." The dog smiled weakly.

The pigeon stopped in his tracks and threw up his wings.

"Aight," he agreed. Then he made a gesture as if to zip his beak shut.

Next that pigeon pounced on Hell Hound, who yelped in fear. Down they tumbled into a snowy pit. Biggy Smalls flew to the top and pointed downward, indicating that Hell Hound should keep digging.

"Biggy, sir, I didn't know Clarence was your brother. I was not thinking. Forgive me! I will never eat a live animal again. I promise! Don't leave me here in this snowy pit to die! I did not read Call of the Wild like my Lady asked, so I don't have a clue on how to survive out here!"

Biggy Smalls grinned and his face morphed into something hideous: a reflection of all the creatures that Hell Hound had murdered and eaten.

Hell Hound screamed like a woman dog.
"NOOOOOOO!"











Just then, a blurry super hero appeared. It was the Christie Princess, Supergirl, in the flesh.

"Come on Hell Hound. I will save you!"

Hell Hound awoke to pets from the little Christie who saved him from his nightmare.

"Wake up Hell Hound! It's Christmas Day! Santa Claus came for you and he brought you a bone!"




Certainly, this was the most glorious day of Hell Hound's life.
Hell Hound, looking up to heaven to silently thank the great Lion, promised to keep Christmas in her heart and actions for the rest of her...week.

THE END ;)

Merry Christmas to the readers of this blog. Hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Love,

Loren

Forgive me for the curse in the first picture, but I thought it was hilarious. It comes from here:
http://www.bestweekever.tv/
The second pigeon picture comes from here: mymedia-forum.com. As you might know, NY got a lot of snow this past weekend, and Hell Hound was tunneling through it merrily on Saturday.

Hell Hound Fails as Man's Best Friend

I was a bit worried last week, when an attempt to impress my Lady with my giant muscles prompted laughter instead of awe.

She must be starting to love that dog more than me, I thought.

Could it be true, what they say, about man's best friend...?" I wondered.

Then, just like the others before it, plan #64 to get Hell Hound thrown out of the Christie house backfired just a tad. It all started with an innocent conversation...

"Hey, you, Hell Dog, come closer," I called as the beast passed with a fluffy grey elephant in its mouth.

The dog, surprised by my location incognito beneath a blanket stopped in its tracks, drooling in such a gross manner that I began to feel queasy.

"Huh?" Hell Hound said, dropping the toy and snapping to attention when it realized its superior was calling. "Sir, Cat, Sir!" It barked.

"At ease solider," I replied, attempting friendliness.

"You know Herbert, I just read the most interesting news in the PETA newsletter about the latest fashion for soldiers in the PETA Army."

Hell Hound's ears tilted forward in anticipation of my tall tale. "Really, cat? Tell me more, Sir. By the way, my name is not Herb.."

"Whatever Doris Dog. Here is what I read. It is the latest fashion for those loyal to PETA to roll around in their own excrement as a sort of protest. Only soldiers should do it, not Sergeant Cats of course. The truth is, Hell Creature, you're just too clean."

Hell Hound stared blankly at the window. Perhaps it was thinking, or distracted by a passing fire engine. I had to clap my paws near its ears to bring the nit-wit back to reality.

"Hey, Spot!" I hissed, leaning into its ear. "Hell Raiser, DO YOU HEAR ME?"

Then it began barking, "Sir, Yes Sir! Get dirty and roll in my...What is excrement, Sir?"

I leaned closer to whisper in layman's terms for the daft brute. Then, suddenly understanding me, it bolted out the back door to get messy.

Finally, my Lady is going to blow a fuse and throw the dog out for good when it jumps on the couch smelling like a toilet!I thought, and my eyes narrowed to glowing slits. Then I just sat back and waited, snapping my tail on the tile floor excitedly.

Eventually the dog, filthy and panting, came barreling back into the house. It jumped right into the arms of my poor Lady, who gasped at the sight (and smell) of that dog.

"Oh, no! My poor Hell Hound!" she exclaimed. "Are you sick? Quick, come with me."

I slithered around the corner to watch my Lady call the vet to arrange the execution, but something horrid happened instead. She took that Hell Hound into the bathroom and gave it the spa treatment, complete with lavender scented shampoo, ear cleaner and the giant hot air machine, MY favorite! That creature got brushed and hugged and wrapped in a towel while I sat, seething in the doorway. How could my Lady love the dog better?

My Lady must have seen the mortified look on my face because she said, "Why are you glaring at the dog, Norman? You can have a turn with the hair dryer too."

"My Lady, I stammered. "Do you still love me?" I covered my eyes, not having the strength to bear the answer.

"Well of course I love you!" She said, without hesitation.

"Do you still love that DOG!?" I continued.

"Well, of course I do." she answered.

"Even when it gets smelly?" I asked. My Lady nodded, toweling off the beast.

"How about when the wolf dog attempts to murder my little governess' favorite stuffed friend, Elephant?!" I dragged Elephant into the doorway, pointing to his injuries with my paw. My Lady yelped in horror. The dog's eyes widened.

Then I stretched a bit and returned to my favorite chair to listen to the merry sound of Hell Hound getting scolded, secure in the knowledge that my Lady and I are Best Friends Forever.

Cherrio!

-Norman Whiskers

My Life As Norman Whiskers: Meatz Located!

As Norman Whiskers painstakingly prepares his gift of MEATZ for Mr. Butcher, the ghost cat living in the attic, the furry specter watches from a dark corner of room, ...and is NOT pleased.

My Life As Norman Whiskers: Fear and Loathing in the Attic

This morning is a sheer delight, since my governess has something called a cold, and cat school is cancelled. I check her chalk ledger and discover that today's lesson would have been ABC's and 123's.

"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.


"Cheerio!"

-Norman Whiskers

My Life As Norman Whiskers: Turf Wars

Now that I have become thoroughly acquainted with my new domain, and its inhabitants, I'm feeling QUITE bold. It is not clear when I will be able to sneak into the attic again, as my governess is watching me closely, and reporting my doings to my Lady on the half hour. I must admit, although I think this little teacher is very charming, and I'm sure she is very knowledgeable on many subjects, she is irritating me.

Right now I'm in the middle of a ballet lesson in the dining room. My governess is showing me the difference between a good tandue, and a bad tandue, followed by a rond du jambe. I swish my tail in passive-aggressive refusal to practice the positions.

"Really, governess, when shall I ever find myself on the stage of the Metropolitan Opera House, as a ballerina? WHY do I have to learn this?" I'm whining.

"Don't be ri-dick-oo-lus, Mr. Whiskers," she replies, not at all shocked by having a conversation with a cat. (Children do not think speaking animals are peculiar.) "You never know when a show might happen. Your grandmama could be over the house and she might say to you, 'Mr. Whiskers, let me see your beautiful dance moves.' Then, you have to do your show." My governess starts to twirl, arms extended, to complete her demonstration performance.

I run for the living room entrance, a part of my new turf that may grant me some rest from tiresome lessons.

"Ah, that's more like it." I say, yawning and stretching my paws out in front of me. I've found a comfortable velvety brown chair to lounge on. "I must say, this is RATHER LUXURIOUS!" I shout, not believing anyone is nearby.

Oops, but I am mistaken. The human my Lady is fond of, Milk Man, is standing by the front door putting on his coat. He looks over at me, surprised. I wait, frozen. He picks up the portable phone and presses a button.

"Loren,... I'm downstairs. Did you just speak on the intercom? Okay. I must be overtired. See you tonight. Love you."

I stay frozen as he replaces the phone to its charger. Milk Man and I lock glares. Then he challenges me to a verbal cat fight in English.

"Listen up Norman," He says, leaning down into my face. "This furniture is a lot more valuable than you are. Scratch Loren's grandma's chair and you're done. I'm talking about your journey across the rainbow bridge, my furry friend."

My hair stands up and I can feel my whiskers twitch. I, Norman Whiskers, a.k.a. Comet, a.k.a. Sonny Sharp Teeth, a.k.a. Bernardo Bigotes Grande, will guard my new turf AND my Lady against this dangerous un-neutered male who has challenged me to a battle. I will use a human weapon: THE TONGUE!

"I beg to differ, MILK MAN!" I whisper in my most evil English tone. "My Lady is quite smitten with me and her devotion far outweighs her attachment to any seat of some kind, or even, I dare say, ... YOU!"

My last spoken word trails off into a growl, and Milk Man's eyes grow wide. He opens the front door, and without taking his eyes off me, pours out the contents of his insulated coffee mug. He touches his forehead, and finding it not feverish, shrugs and leaves the house.

I settle back down into my new throne and lick my paws, as is my custom after a brawl. I consider this a turf war WON!

Cheerio!

-Norman Whiskers

My Life as Norman Whiskers: The Forbidden Doors

In the Christie house there are many doors, and as I am beginning to feel quite at home here, I decide to set out on an expedition to find out what is behind them. First thing to do is to lose my governess for a few hours. Left to myself, I can let my curiosity guide me without inhibition.

I lead her to a giant statue of cookies on the dining room table, encouraging her to climb up on a chair to reach it. I slice through the plastic with my claw, at her bidding. Henceforth she becomes thoroughly preoccupied by the human treats. Soon, my Lady spies the governess in the dining room, and instead of scolding her, joins in on the feeding time. While this great Cookie Blackout ensues, I begin my quest to find out what lurks behind the doors.

Perhaps I might find a mouse or possum, I think, licking my lips. Most doors reveal drab and uneventful rooms, I'm afraid. Then I come across an attic door. I ascend the narrow steps and push my way under the hatch. "Famous!" I shout, with excitement, upon viewing the attic rooms. Surely it is a trapped pigeon I smell under the rafters in a far corner. What I find, however, is very surprising. It is a bird indeed, of the large jet-black kind, and he is rather dead. Crushed even. "Yuk." I say, lifting my paws and hopping back.

I hear a creak beneath my tail and listen. Certain that it is not the sound of air whistling out the back of me, which happens occasionally if I snack on greasy french fries, I look beneath me. I discover a trap door of some sort. "Capital!" I shout, again delighted at my discovery.

I am interrupted, however, by the sweet sound of my Lady calling my new name.

"Norman! Where are you?!"

I hear her ascending the steps to the bedroom chambers. I lift the hatch and slide back down the attic steps, sprawling myself on the floor in front of entrance to the governess' room.

"Norman? I was just up here and could not find you. Are you up to some scheme? Still waiting for you to talk again. I'm not going to forget you can do it, Norman. Since I know for sure that you can understand me, listen up. Never, never go in the attic. The house is very old, one hundred and eight, in fact. Up there," she says, pointing, "lies great danger for a cat."

My Lady bends down and kisses my head, as I look at the floor, avoiding her eyes. I know that I can not obey, when it comes to mysterious doors, and I must return to the attic directly, when the coast is clear, of course!

Cheerio!

-Norman Whiskers

My Life as Norman Whiskers: Settling In

As my appointed governess, the mini-lady is teaching me a wide assortment of skills, the first and foremost being tea time table etiquette. The first rule of thumb is that all present covered in plastic, fur or flesh MUST have a proper hat. Although I am a bit vexed by being made to look like a lady, something I vowed I'd only do if I were crossing the Equator on a ship, I agree to the flowery hat.

Tomorrow she plans to show me an interesting video in which a girl named Dora Saves the Mermaids. My little governess says we will both reap the benefits of learning spanish phrases from this program, and I suspect an added perk is that there may be fish in it. Tasty, I'm sure!

This afternoon I find my Lady sitting in her favorite chair on the porch, reading a novel about a lion, a witch and a wardrobe. Upon further investigation I discover that she is crying. So vexed am I, that again I forget myself, and all adherence to Cat Code of Conduct goes flying out the window. I speak English by accident.

Jumping on her lap, I shout, "My dear Lady, why do you shed tears on your book?"

"Well Norman," she begins, sniffling. "The creatures beat and tortured the beautiful, gentle lion, and it's very sad."

"Oh, my Lady, it's just a book, not at all reality." I purr, giving her a nudge with my head.

"AH HA! It is true, in a sense. The book is filled with Christian allegory, and more importantly, YOU JUST SPOKE! I knew you could do it. I was sure I was not crazy when I heard you talk last week. Do it again! ...Norman?"

I jump backwards off her lap and onto the floor. I frown. I squirm. I dart into the bathroom to sulk in the cabinet, but it is no use. My Lady follows me there, and peers in at me.



"Say something, Norman. I promise I won't tell anyone," she says, pleading.

I close my eyes and feign a yawn. Then my Lady is suddenly called away when the little dwarf baby climbs out of his screened-in box. Should I tell her the truth? I'm not quite sure she can be trusted. This question spins round in my weary brain until I finally fall asleep.

Cheerio!

-Norman Whiskers

My Life as Norman Whiskers: Discoveries

The idea that a cat might utter words in English seems to captivate my Lady, and she sets off doing all sorts of things to provoke me into speaking again. I truly regret my blunder, and search my heart for a way to make my Lady forget the incident, as the old cat upstairs advised. However, while I watch Milk Man shave in front of the bathroom mirror this morning, he mutters some useful information about her.

"That woman has a memory like an elephant."

I'm not sure if he is addressing me directly, or perhaps, he mistakenly thinks his reflection is another human. (I do that sometimes myself!) At any rate, as soon as he is done grooming himself, and gone for the day, I run upstairs to ask Princess Leah what this statement could possibly mean.

The old cat is sitting in the sink bowl, staring up into the faucet spout.

"Princess Leah, I must speak to you." I say hastily. She turns her old head slowly and gazes at me with frozen green eyes.

"Oh, Hello Norman. What is it?"

I try to gesture to her the idea that my Lady may be part elephant, flipping my tail over the front of my head to simulate a trunk.

"Are you having a seizure, Norman?... Quick! My Lady!.... Summon the vet!" Princess Leah jumps out of the sink with the energy of a much younger cat, genuinely concerned for my well-being.

"No, no! I'm fine." I laugh. "I'm trying to tell you that I think my Lady may be part elephant. Milk Man said it this morning to his reflection while he groomed himself in the mirror. This is odd, Princess, because she isn't even wide, or grey in color. She looks all human, in fact."

"Norman, my naive young boy!" Princess laughs, showing a row of browning teeth. "Milk Man means that she never forgets anything. It's just an expression. She has a memory like an elephant."

After this explanation, Princess Leah returns to the window and peers out. I leave her there as she suddenly forgets I'm in the room.

"A memory like an elephant!" I think. "What a grand ability!"

However, my heart sinks as it becomes apparent to me that my Lady will not forget my blunder. I descend the staircase, hearing the sweet sound of rustling paper below. I find my Lady in the dining room engrossed in the most fascinating project involving multiple strips of paper. She twists, tapes and staples until her efforts form a magnificent snowflake, which she hangs from a curtain rod in the den.

Noticing my interest, my Lady bends down to speak to me directly. "It's origami, Norman. I learned how to make these when I was in college. I'm decorating the windows to surprise the kids." Then my Lady squints her eyes and watches me, waiting for a spoken response, but I keep my pink lips closed tightly. "She's using her elephant memory... Stay strong, Norman." I tell myself.

"Imagine, going to college and acquiring such amazing skills like this origami!" I think. How I wish I could have this opportunity! I think living here will be quite an enriching learning experience.

Cheerio!

-Norman Whiskers

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 reputation as a bad @$$ street cat.

Cheerio!

-Norman Whiskers

My Life as Norman Whiskers: A Careless Blunder

The dog is a horrid creature. From my sunny seat atop a chair that seems just my size, I glare at it with disgust.

"Why are you so angry, cat?" The dog asks, tilting its head like someone utterly clueless. "What have I, Hell Hound, ever done to you?"

I swish my tail and utter a low growl. "You simply exist, Charles." I say as I hop off the chair and dart past it to a more secure location under the dining room table. Then that creature takes my place on the chair.

The Hell Hound looks offended. It whines and droops its shaggy head. "Actually I am a girl, and my name is not Charles."

"A girl! Ha! That's a funny one, Clyde. Go, run along and chase your tail in that street over there." I motion toward the window with my tail.

The dog runs away, obviously insulted, and my pink lips twist into a smile. I'm thinking I might be able to drive it so batty that it runs away from home. Poor thing. I believe this scheme will work. We shall see.

In the laundry room my Lady is typing away on her blog. She seems to do this for about 30 minutes each day. I watch her with great interest, attempting to give her my paw and bonk heads until she shoos me off her lap.

"I can't type and pet you." She says.

"How quickly the bright colors of new love fade!" I think. Perhaps the computer has replaced me in her heart. I suddenly feel sad. She leans down and pats my head. "I'm sorry Norman. Just give me ten more minutes to finish this and I'll fill your dish." I purr in acceptance of this compromise.

I sit and watch her, swishing my tail like Indiana Jones does with his whip. (I learned my Lady is quite enamored by that old geezer). I do think it makes me look sexy. Then she turns and says:

"Norman, I'm so proud of you, accepting Hell Hound like you have! It was so nice to see you let her give you a kiss on the nose last night. I was touched."

"WHAT! I must have been drunk! In fact, I believe I was sniffing an open bottle of Merlot on the counter while you were tending to the children. How disgusting! Quick, get the bottle of Scope, my Lady. I feel quite sick....Never speak of this again to anyone. I'm sure the negative effects of alcohol have led you to being kissed by dogs as well."

Her eyes grow very wide, and her mouth is agape with horror. "Norman!" She gasps. "You speak...English?!" I run before I can answer, through the kitchen, past the dumb-bell dog and up the stairs. I have to see Princess Leah, and get her advice on my folly. The line all cats MUST not cross is to let humans know we can speak their language. In my shock over the shameful incident with Hell Hound, I forget this ancient rule.

Princess Leah is again wrapped up in the final chorus of her favorite song, "Memories." She is sitting on a puppy training pad on top of her cat bed. "Princess Leah! Oh, my. I've just made a dreadful mistake!" I say, skidding up to her. She is sitting in her own pee. She immediately sees the look of repulsion on my face at her lack of litter box observance, and says:

"Why do you stare! It wasn't me. I have not the slightest idea how this pad got wet. It must have been that dog! My Lady understands. She will change it when she sees it. What do you want?" The old cat seems embarrassed, and speaks quickly.

"I spoke to my Lady in English! It was an accident. I was upset over getting drunk and kissing the....Well, never mind," I say, blushing.

Princess Leah is staring out the window again. She turns her furry head toward me. "Oh, hello. How are you, Norman?" Obviously, she is a bit senile. I explain my problem again and ask her advice.

"Oh, my. No, my Lady has never heard me speak English. Why, that would be crazy. She would have put me in the circus, or worse, made me perform in front of relatives at holiday gatherings. What you've done is shameful, Norman, just dreadful. You've broken Cat Code of Conduct. What you've done cannot be undone. The solution to this problem lies within your heart. May the force be with you."

After she says this, Princess Leah yawns, stretches her paws out from underneath her torso, and begins to snore.