Nobody tells me anything. "What's [person] doing?!" says the higher-ups. "[Person] is currently finishing up fifth grade," says I, "why do you need to know?" And what response do I get? I'll tell you what I get:
"That's none of your business, cat."
That's the response I get!
Cursed humans.
And what's more, after my so-called "crazy stunt" I'm forced to send my reports to FF HQ (Feline Forces Headquarters) instead of just HQ--i.e., my writings are processed by other cats and probably never even reaches the big men themselves.
I really hate my job.
So, for the record, since some stupid white-collar feline is going to have to read this anyway, I might as well put them through a regular monster. I know, Mr. White-Collar-Snot-Nosed-Delicate-Paws-Worker, you're just dying to know what this "crazy stunt" is.
Well, let me tell you... It's the reason for my temporary change in location. It's the reason that I've gone from semi-luxury and ease (kitty chow and a leaky house) to absolutely no luxury and ease (garbage and a gutter).
It all started when that girl put a bow around my neck. She's not a bad girl, mind you, and sometimes she goes for a walk over the neighborhood and comes back smelling like cat, which means she hangs with the right kind of crowd. But she can be a bit...well...smotherish. No, I didn't mean motherish, I meant smother-ish. It was dreadful. I was all choked up--my windpipe was all squished in, and the strings tickled my belly and tangled up in my paws. To add insult to injury, she chimed in with a "d'aawww, da kitty is so cwoooot!"
Just like that.
It must be admitted that I did look rather fetching, if I may say so myself. I know because I snuck a glance at myself in the window later that day, and...well, kelly green does look quite good with my strawberry blond fur. Kind of creates a contrast that simply smacks of dashingness and daring do. But the "d'awwww, da kitty is soooo cwooooot!" did not smack of anything but the stuff that induces regurgitation, and so I threw in the towel. The minute the ribbon came off, I mutilated it properly and took off for the diggings in the gully (oh, yes, the higher ups are very interested in those diggings--but they won't say why either! They implied that they suspected drugs, but I was trained to sniff drugs--I mean, sniff for drugs, and I don't smell a thing. I thought I'd be removed from the case after reporting that first thing, but I've been here for weeks, and they're still asking stupid questions.)
So I slunk around down there until nightfall, and when it came I tore off some of my stunningly handsome coat and smeared some ketchup into it. After placing it strategically where no one could miss it in said diggings, I took to the road.
Then I set off like a streak of greased lightning. Seriously, when I get going, I really get going. The wind in my ears, the moon glistening on my well-groomed fur, my eyes swerving from side to side to pick out any stray movement from the ditch...it's a dangerous job, one that requires speed and sharp senses. I have both to the max. Oh, and swoon-worthy studliness, but that technically isn't necessary. They do help, though. I mean, who adopts a one-eyed raggedy-eared cat? Those can only get assigned to cases that involve pathetic softies (read: ALMOST NEVER). But a good-looking fella with red-gold fur and stunning green eyes...it's a done deal, no matter what. Even the man of the family here, a renowned cat hater, slips me an extra scoop of kitty chow every now and then. That could be because he knows how much I despise the stuff, but I think it's all owing to his ignorance and my naturally attractive self.
Where was I?
Ah yes.
Galloping down the road, like a well-trained stallion going for the finished line, I was nearing the entrance to the neighborhood, about to see sweet freedom, ready to go back to HQ and give them a piece of my mind and my transfer appeal (I'm thinking about the SWAT team...more action) when I spotted him.
He was a big, nasty looking fellow with all the appearance of being the head of whatever dreadful business HQ suspects is going on here. Even the trail of drool sliding down his chin as he snored bespoke the evil in his heart. Having halted my run, I changed courses and crept closer, closer to get a better look... Do you remember that list? Speed, sharp senses, and swoon-worthy studliness? Add "sensational stealth" to that. Oh yeah.
Speaking of sensational stealth, I think I hear one of the big fellas coming back. I'd rather be caught by that older girl back at the hoodlums' house than by one of these guys. I swear, when he scratches his head I see the outline of a pistol under his unwashed shirt. I don't think there's even a laundry machine here, and the word "laundromat" isn't in their vocab. Anyway, I wouldn't put it past them to shoot at me, so I'll finish the story some other
