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.