From: SA Lucius, codename MEOW1234, alias Rum Tum Tiger, Surveillance and Reconnaissance Expert Extraordinaire.
- General Summary: A few months ago that we uncovered some potential shady business going on in this neck of the woods. I was sent here to keep an eye on the suspicious workings here--can't divulge anything yet as it isn't set in stone. In general, however, the situation seems designed to drive a certain feline crazy--and I'm not talking about the neighbor's goody-two-shoes house cat. Nothing rankles with me more than the sight of a doting house cat. Blech. Every time I see that slobbering thing I think of putting in a transfer request. But I digress.
- Situation: I wasn't given a house-cat position--thank goodness--so no doting or litterbox, but I still don't appreciate having to keep up this infernal skulking act. After all, who wants to be thought of by his inferiors as a rather backwards beast who lives for nothing but a bowl of unpalatable fodder served up every morning? If said inferiors knew my real business, and where I could put them if they put one paw out of place, I daresay they'd pay me a bit more respect--and perhaps serve up a nice slab of raw salmon on the good china every now and again instead of Kitty Chow in a Tupperware dish. I place myself at a high risk by using this computer, but the people here are so stupid. They walk in and out of this room without even giving the slightest bit of notice to the fact that a cat--their cat--is using a laptop. (It's one of my special talents.) Honestly, you'd think they'd figure it out--I mean, no devastatingly good-looking and generally brilliant cat just shows up on your doorstep and decides he'll stay there without an ulterior motive. Kitty Chow definitely does not qualify as an ulterior motive, and that's about all I get here. But these reckless, inferior humans--no sense of caution. "Oooh, good kitty!" "Nice kitty!" "Have some food, kitty!" Then they had the nerve to name me. And, of all things, with T.S. Elliot. It's partly my fault, I'll admit. They almost hit on my real name--almost called me by it--and I knew the other side would be after me in a moment. I abased myself by some abnormal actions (stalking blades of grass and leaves--degrading, I know, but a cat's gotta do what a cat's gotta do) and they settled on Rum Tum Tiger. That's right. I'm a mutated form of a T.S. Elliot character. Insult to injury. I haven't got anything in particular against good ol' T.S., but I was hoping for something manly like--Stalker, or Agent. Then again, those would have been too close to the truth. At least they didn't call me "Ribbons"; part of this stupid act involves chasing anything that blows around in front of me. I even chased my tail once when they caught me putting my communications device away. Wait--what's that--eh--that older girl, she's coming in--my cover's almost blown; time to play the stupid cat... I hate this job...
BAD CAT! BAD CAT!
- Status: Cover maintained. Bad cat, indeed. Who does she think she is? Resuming my rooftop position, awaiting next order.
- Requests: Please consider staging untimely death; cannot take Kitty Chow much longer. Also consider high bonus; I'm fond of any kind of fish. Pay raises also appreciated. In the meantime, find me a good therapist--I'm going to need it.
lol that's really funny! My cat's not that talented. I think all he ever does is eat and sleep....he definitely doesn't sit on top of the roof! :P
Oh, Anna, why have you never taken up the author's hat and regaled the world with some of your inimitable humor? This stuff is positively ridiculous. Far better than "Hank the Cowdog". *grin* You should've named your cat James Bond....
Wonderful!! Bravo! Makes me think of Hank the Cowdog. And you know how much I enjoy that. :-D A rather satisfactory way of explaining the cat's disappearance.