Turn turn turn

Yes, yes. It's all over. Fin. A champion walks these grounds, eh. A man? Certainly not. (That strange creature, as the feline called him, is once again out cold underneath the shadow of a two dimensional jointed limb. He just couldn't cope.) So, the female feline, you ask? Not at all. Stiff as stuffing, pompously curled up on the shoulder of a certain handsome military man. Ah, then, the prodigal Bubba, you must be thinking... Wrong again. Let me explain, before I introduce myself, the Champion of Mansion d'Leans, eh.

It really came down to the two of us: Comforting venom vs. Existentialism in denial (poor devil). E.D., as he shall be known posthumously, put up a fight, I must give him some credit, but my northern tactics outmatched him in the end. E.D. zigzagged, he glared, he bit, he slashed, he scraped, he rolled, he ran, he rammed, he even played dead. But, once my top gets turning... no contest. Turn, turn, turn, turn. My potency prevails in all seasons, eh. My potency prevails.

So, R.I.P. E.D.

And long live the Champ, eh!

Canadian Mist!!!! Forever!!!!


Please drink responsibly.
http://www.canadianmist.com

Where are my feeders?

This is Kathleen. Please come to my aid.

My everyday feeders have disappeared and left with me a strange creature intent on engaging the portraits in conversation. His choice of topics is generally dead boring, for the most part revolving around my mischievous partner, Bubbaconsin IV. He (the strange creature) and the pilot (that handsome devil) had a seven hour conversation on Saturday afternoon about Bubbaconsin's physiology. The pilot found B's personality to be slightly choleric, while the strange creature vigorously defended his impression of B as a sanguinely tempered "beast". Appalling, if you ask me. This strange creature has not spoken with Bubbaconsin for more than four minutes, and here he is discussing him as if he were some pet. And the pilot! I ask you! He has never paid B any mind. He simply stares at me while I rest on the wood floor in the sun as if I were some object. And he never removes his hat. Never. Even when in the presence of a lady. Yes, myself. I have spent days and days dolled up before him, and Lord W and Lady C. Always minding my manners, and he just stands there, above decorum. Honestly. Lord W and Lady C always place their canasta cards down when I enter the drawing room in the morning. I am greeted with respect and I thus reciprocate. But, this pilot, I just cannot put up with him for much longer. Prrrunmph!

And this strange creature! Where did my feeders find him? He must be some sort of charity case. Probably can't make his way amongst his creatures and has been prescribed a rest. A real Hans Castorp, if you ask me. Always asking the pilot, the lord and the lady for advice. Honestly, get on with it. Most disturbing, however, is this habit of his to irritate the loungers. I caught him knocked out on the hallway floor after my friend, Mrs. Genou had told him off (in a rather physical manner) for waking her for the fourth consecutive morning with an inquiry into the whereabouts of Bubbaconsin IV. Apparently she sent him a knee to the dome-piece, as they say. And this morning, mein Gott! he (the strange creature) was calling out for B, as if he were some sort of canine, at the top of voice, when Lars Coude bashed him in the back with his right elbow sending the strange creature hurtling into the herb garden. Where he is now, I might add. Face down in the rosemary.

I would wake him, but he has this other awful habit of referring to me as "his female feline companion". Ugh. I am not his companion, nor do I intend to be. He can have his damn pilot. Selfish brutes.

Enough of this nonsense. Send me a new feeder. Pronto.

All calm

No sign of Bubba this fine Saturday morning. His turkey giblets have been basting in gravy on the kitchen floor while patiently awaiting his arrival. And my female feline companion has refrained from eating and seems slightly annoyed at his eminence's tardiness.

Moreover, there has been no sign of aggression from any wall-hangings in oil, acrylic or print. The general is away...

I have spent the morning sprinkling and watering. Yes, yes, I know such duties don't fall under those of my two grand titles, but I get a kick out of spraying plants with my pants hiked up and my free hand resting on my upper hip. If only I had a visor. And a Buick. Oh, speaking of which, I am driving a rocket these days.

Perhaps I might make myself useful today...

Grand Titles

I'm certainly one for grand titles. If only "cat-sitter" or "book boxer" garnered the respect deserved, I would be swimming in the limelight. People would flock to me and ask for advice on whether or not Friskies Salmon Dinner is appropriate for a Friday brunch, or if White Tuna Feast wouldn't just taste a tad better if served in a blue bowl. As for my book boxing cult... well, lessons on how to combine hardbacks with paperbacks, first editions amongst reference titles, perhaps a lecture on Kant, how to really lift with the legs, and obviously a course on organizing cookbooks! People can be so short-sighted.

Two surveyors arrived today. Friendly chaps - although uninterested in a coffee. But there is a grand title for you, "surveyor". Just think! Peter the Great with his enormous leg bent at the knee, foot based on a stump, sword pointing before the Neva, "this shall be the imperial capital". Or a young Washington out in the wilderness protecting the natives from the land-hungry French... hmm... I think I read a rather unrealistic biography of Washington (W.Irving, perhaps). Anyway, "surveyor" is a grand title indeed. I wonder how it sounds in Italian? "ispettore"- not bad. Scusi, Signore ispettore? Si? Caffe? Si.

Bubba and I had a chat last night. A brief chat, I should add. Bubba isn't one for sitting still. Apparently he was slightly off put by my description of him as an existentialist. I assured him that it was simply an assumption and that he was clearly too sophisticated a feline to fall into any philosophical category. He humphed, or prrrrumphed, rather, and turned his tail. I flashed a deadly look at my female feline companion, for it was surely her who told him. She likewise turned her tail leaving me with nothing but an empty box of Canadian Mist.

A difficult moment.

I then slowly left the main room, avoiding eye contact with my portraited companions (keeping in mind Simpson's fate) and headed down a hallway. Just before my second left turn I was struck on the side of the head by a knee at almost full force. A most remarkably hard knee, I might add. After recovering from the initial shock - and pain - I turned indignantly to my right only to find the knee firmly in place and its possessor attempting a look of quiet innocent repose. I stared forcefully into her face, but found no sign of movement, guilt, or amusement. We remained locked into our positions for a considerable amount of time, neither moving, neither retreating, neither breathing. It wasn't until my female feline companion inquired into my activity, or more precisely, non-activity, that I inhaled and with a recently picked up, prrrrrumph, marched off.

I do hope Bubba hasn't declared war. How some creatures loath labels...

bubba

Bubba arrived last night. He looked at me. He ate. He then ran off into the garden avoiding the snipers on the roof. He seems to run in a zigzag motion. Perhaps his disregard for Euclid's theory of negotiating distance should be taken into account. I'm going to ponder this one. Perhaps a quick glass of Canadian Mist will help clear my head. Ah, speaking of which, my female feline companion has just arrived with two highballs. A well trained cat. Although a bit early.

Perhaps Bubba is an existentialist. He did look back at me after that zigzag run... existentialists are always doing that sort of thing.

Book boxing went splendidly yesterday afternoon. I worked diligently until I ran into Nabokov's short stories. It wouldn't fit into the box so I soothed it by taking it into the garden and swinging it gently in the hammock. I read my favorite story about a young man, Simpson visiting a school chum at his grand manor in the country. Poor Simpson is tempted by a lemon offered by a beautiful Venetian lady cast in oils and finds himself inside her portrait. A rather frightful turn of events, if you ask me, but far from unlikely. When I felt the collection of stories had recovered sufficiently we returned to the indoors and I placed it in a new box, a fresh box with more witty conversationalists. I then inspected my three formal companions, also cast in oils, and questioned their intentions for the week ahead. I spied no citrus, nor any other objects of enticing nature. I decided to ensure more cordial relations and have made plans to offer sacrifices this evening. Hopefully the masters of the house don't plan on bringing their cow to their next abode. Perhaps I should place a call.

A thunderstorm is imminent. A fine morning to box books.

An auspicious start...

Ah, so my week of rest, relaxation and felines has begun. And begun well. Upon arrival at Mansion d'Leans I was instructed, by way of symbols, to sit myself on the veranda where I was presented with a scrumptious lunch of fresh salmon and wild rice. My future female feline companion showed great restraint and sat by my side sunning herself without even pointing an eye at the direction of my feast. A fine show. I ate slowly and purposefully. Flaking away at the salmon while planning my week ahead. I am here to keep the female feline and the mysterious Bubba company while their masters are off sunning themselves on the Carolina shore. I am also here to put books in boxes. To box books, rather. I am also here to eat all the food that I possibly can. An appropriate challenge considering I weigh less than 150 pounds. Most certainly less than Bubba.

The female feline seems rather straight forward. She likes to lounge about in the sun, eat (presumably) and occasionally yawn and stretch. An admirable approach to life (not far off my own).

I have no idea where Bubba is, nor do I know his metaphysical leanings. However, I feel it safe to presume that Bubba too enjoys the fine art of eating. Even if his (her?) salmon appears from a can.

That's the cats.

As for the books... Well there are certainly a number of them- Oh! My female feline companion has joined me and I can add to her list of interests: a keen appreciation of petting. Right. So, the books seem daunting, but I do have a week. Shit. The cat is now on my lap. She is drooling on my leg... She is no longer on my lap. I never knew cats drooled... A habit inherited from her caretakers, I imagine. So, the books. The books are to all go into boxes. Within a week. The books are intriguing, and I worry about my ability to actually put them in boxes without reading what is inside. I shall first box those of little interest and save the best for last. The boxes are also intriguing. The residents of Mansion d'Leans are clearly enjoying life (perhaps even more so than my female feline). There is an enduring theme displayed on the boxes: Cutty Shark, Gibley's, Johnny Walker, Southern Comfort, Rawson's Reserve (and a number of other vineyards), Kahlua, Skyy, and the most exciting of all: Canadian Mist. I like that one. I can't imagine what in God's name Canadian Mist could be, but I intend on finding out soon. "I'm in the mood for some Canadian Mist!" Perhaps this explains my female companion's drooling.

The lunch, once again, was fantastic. Luckily, I didn't have to look far for desert either. The last time I was here I spied out some little coconut cakes. Needless to say they are no longer. I'm very well taken care of, it seems.

Off to box, where I will be accompanied by three members of generations long past. Fortunately, formal introductions have been made.

Perhaps Bubba will make an appearance.