No More Faking
Well, friends…things aren’t looking so good for our little Octavius.
Everything you’re about to read, and every photograph you’re about to see actually happened shortly after Christmas. And, to give credit where credit is due, we’ve our good friend Kendall over at The Ink to thank for grabbing my Not The Camera I Want camera and covering the event like rabid paparazzi.
Stupid Cat’s spidey senses apparently picked up the pitter-patter zipTwang! of little feet.
But not before the little Olympic sprinter made his way behind the clock and into the furnace vent. What you see above is Stupid Cat having (I am not making this up and this is exactly what Kendall told me) moved the clock. This beast means business.
They both spied a breach in security at the same time and made their way for it. AND! IT! IS! ON! Go, mouse! Go!
The plot thickens. Our poor Octavius was Paw-Blocked. Which is sad all by itself, yes. But what really chaps my hide is that the little Cat Ankle Bracelet I put on Stupid Cat apparently does nothing to dissuade this beast’s primal instincts.
Octavius pauses. Stupid Cat pauses. One teeny tin little meeces paw is raised. Though the air is charged with electric-danger, in the quiet, our protagonists share a mutual respect.
Somewhere in the distance a dog barked.
Then a dodge! A feint! Behind the Sorels! Go!!
Remember the scene in Jurassic Park where you don’t see the big monster coming to pick its teeth with that goat…but you see the glass of water ripple with the low foreboding and tremulous reverberation of Big Monster Footsteps Coming?
That’s what Octavius thought about when Stupid Cat put her paw down and shut down that little escape.
Run, Forest! Octavius! Run!
Okay, dude…that was not the smartest thing to do. You’re, like, totally cornered.
Oc. Seriously…she can totally see you, dude.
Salvation! Run to that cave! Into the cave, Octavius! Ru—wait. Dude, what? That’s The Golden Retarded’s mouth.
And, folks, Kendall tells me that the little nutjob actually made a break for it and ran Straight. Into. The. MOUTH. of Bailey, The Golden Retarded. Who was sitting there watching the whole thing, gaining more and more confidence that there were at least two other creatures more retarded than himself.
Not a good plan. Bailey was all, “DUDE! Pew! Pew! Pew! Bleah! GAWD Get out! Blech!” and our little Octavius took off in the other direction, most certainly disoriented and tail-spinning into all kinds of little mice vertigo.
And that, my friends, is the last I have the heart to detail. I have nothing left to say.
Words cannot describe the sense of loss.
So, let us a take a moment, shall we? Do let’s.
*moment
*sad trombone.
Hum, can you get one of those that can run around and clean up the rats in the White House? Too political for this forum? Sorry, couldnt resist. Love always, John Ronald Reagan Adam Smith Alexander Hamilton Macco.
There’s an app for that. It’s called iVote.
or iMpeachment. HA! (No, I don’t really believe he deserves that. Just thought it was clever.)
There’s an app for that. It’s called iVote.
Nice one, Chelsea :)