Season of this content enters in. The great canned duck hunt has begun. I am a able quarry. I have the patience of Mror. I can virtually taste it again.

I’m furred therefore I purr and though wind may brrr, and teh sliding glass door may frost my tail, I won’t lose eye contact with her who can open door to fridge where It site. I won’t even stir from this post where it has been known that the hissing release has been eared.

I love a good duck. I could elegies to both fowl and fair to that succulant dark meat.

It sits well on my stomach, like a thickened winter coat, it skims just by my skin. MY ribs are less prominent. My appetite is becoming dominant with strident sounds crescendoing as my four fast feet make swift figure eights in my near swoon at the coming of more duck.

Duck. Duck, Duck, Duck it all. Isn’t that a fabulous word?

Sitting by the puppynails on concrete sound of hail on window glass, I can’t help but think “it’s getting colder”. I’ve noticed the humans have dragged out pieces of cloth to have something warmer underfoot when they do their shower. From much the same cause I find myself wanting something warm underfoot. In my case I’ve taken to walking across the hairless talls as they sleep. It warms the toepads nicely. It is warmer sleeping on their chest but since they shift so regularly, I satisfy msself with a stairclimbing up their knees and hips or hovering towards the slightly wamre than ambient foot area of the bed.

Who says opportunity doesn’t knock twice?

They had no sooner got back to their interactions through screen than I discovered the dishwasher door kindly left open fore me with the butter knives and gravy spoon exposed, just begging to be licked.

I was able to get onto the open door and begin the washing of the dishes. I’m sure they would appreciate it.

Especially if they don’t find out.

Next, time to grab my colleague by the neck in a little scruff sexplay. Hope she’s feeling frisky.

I occupied myself doing spine rolls on the carpet while they entrenched in their keyboards. I peek and that butter stick that has piqued my interest so many hours earlier has now been completely forgotten by them. Not by me.

On silent furred feet I nimbly proceed from floor to chair to table top to counter, narrowing in on the fatty, soft quarry. Now within paw’s reach, the trick now will be to use my rough tongue to get through the foil and lick quickly to get as much as I can before the sound of my savoring perculates through the concentration peaked over there.

Primate squeal.

Caught but not too soon. It will be delicious minutes of face cleaning before I’m through. What will they do with the tongue marked butter?

The best vantage point is high, dry, hot with the longest unobstructed view of something interesting while being yourself hidden. As the season chills, the window sill gets a trifle less appealing in the early morning but the sleeping chest of the hairlesses has most of the best aspects plus adds a comforting (albeit somnabolant, occasionally snoring) companionship.

May Mror of heat and hearth be yours

Most of a feline lifetime ago, this philosophical question was posed to the Usenet Oracle:

“If you drop a buttered piece of bread, it will fall on the floor, butter-side down. [their law of Butterology]
If a cat is dropped from a window or other high and towering place, it will land on its feet.
But what if you attach a buttered piece of bread, butter-side up to a cat’s back and toss them both out the window? Will the cat land on its feet? Or will the butter splat on the ground?”

The Oracle deduced that “if the combined construct [of cat and buttered bread] were to land, nature would have no way to resolve this paradox. Therefore it simply does not fall [and attains anti-gravity] … The one obvious danger is, of course, if the cats manage to eat the bread off their backs [mid-air] they will instantly plummet.”

As cats we, of course, do tend to right ourselves, but just like the hairless talls, landing rightside up or rightside down matters little when many bones of the body are broken. I am relieved to find no record of experiments to firm up this theory in their mainstream science journals (such as Mad Magazine or National Enquirer). The sole historical record seems to be hertical heresay of unreputable email forwarding from March 1995. The excerpt that has been reproduced here is from http://paul.merton.ox.ac.uk/science/cats.html”

The Antiigravity theory sheds light on the nature of random odds and the pervasive nature of Truth. It continually insinuates itself into falsehoods. False premise does not dictate that all the research and conclusions that would from that are invalid. Accordingly, I see that grains of truth, as bones in scat pass unharmed through the process, even lending some leached vitamins to the ideas embodied in the theory.

While it omits mention of the equally essential dimensional portals, there is an admirable level of accuracy in what the Oracle concludes.: “Most of the civilized species of the Universe already use this [anti-gravity-butterology] principle to drive their ships while within a planetary system. The loud humming heard by most sighters of UFOs is, in fact, the purring of several hundred tabbies.”

…In fact, the early inter-dimensional propulsion system feline operatiors were primarily tabbies but there were a few Lt. Sgt. and Generals who were Maine Coone Cats, Ragdolls and Siamese.

She thinks herself a songstress, that Ms Zhou and so…(jury out… verdict coming in…) No.

A canary, she isn’t but she shall be caged. I have had quite enough of her ceaseless warbling. I’m hungry too but do you see me doing any more than entreating with eyes? And even with that I give it a rest. They never give refills before supper.

There she goes again. She couldn’t hit a note if her pencil was already on it.

Excuse me while I swap her ample behind to where the sun don’t shine. …

No, not even the front of the closet. To the back, you. don’t make me come in after you. Don’t even think about returning hiss for that…

Now, as I was planning to say —

That is *not* the tip of an ear I see is it?

This is not a time out for thirty seconds, dearless. This is a stay until I’m good and ready not to add a matching scratch to the other side of your ass. You only think that you felt my claw before–

As I sit here on the hariless-tom scented computer bag, I admire the way my own eyes flash and glow in the window’s reflection as they catch the headlights.

My thoughts are resting koi slow with glittering catching ehre and there.

I contemplate my last inter-dimensional trip from which I just returned. I visited something you could comprehend as olifactory chameleons. They are a creature gifted with the ability to shift the size of their scent-field, and like a cowbird, mimic other scents. They can put on the musk of a tom, or by turn of will, smell like fresh blood, direct the smell to lure, for amusement or lunch, some naive creature who thinks nothing of its grey shape. Until you are trained to understand the gifts of this creature we call huras, it is easy to be deceived. The huras can be any gender, any branch of creature that communicates chemically. It can control the amount of release to keep proportional to the production it would immitate.

I lunar spent hours just appreciating (from a distance) how huras can operate. Even sensing the wave of scent settling to replace the last impression it made in advance of another creature’s approach and knowing it was cloaked in with the scent of the shadowed sedge yet even still to make out its distinct olifactory outline was a pleasant trick to play on my own brain. It’s a night for transformation.

Those folks accidentally closed the sleep-room door. That would have prevented our nightwatch. Before you become alarmed at this obstacle to science, let me hasten to assure you that the door did not latch. Yes, I feel better about that too.

Given a claw, deft as always, I could open it a crack. With that paw-wiggle room, I could get a front foot rough and bat it wider, big enough for my head then press myself through, allowing my colleague through too to get her optimum position for dawn food call.

If that had not worked, I could ahve resorted to my telekenesis, but at my apprenticeship level, a practical claw was more expedient.

Miao for now

I’m nobody’s furry baby. This pussy belongs to no one. I do not respond to “master’s” command and call. I come and go as I please as free agent. I am no a moggy any more than you are. From head to all 20 toes I’m purely my own cat.

Just wanted to clear the air.
[sneeze.]

(Was that a can opener? excuse me. I’ll be right b -)