Missing for Action

WC 911

Missing for Action

By Jack Rawlins

"So Tabitha, let's have another nip while I explain why I went missing for action and why you now once more have the pleasure of my company.

As you know, I live with two lovely old ladies. Neither has ever had an original thought in their dull lives. That's why they named me 'Tom.' Tom, for crap's sake! Ranks right up there with 'Fido.' And guess what they named their sissy pit bull? Yep. Fido.

I never heard them call their late canary or late goldfish by name....probably couldn't think of any. And I never did get used to the idea of them calling one another “Sister.” ( I was forced to think of them as Sister I and Sister II.)

Things were going quite well, except for a little sibling rivalry between Fido and me. I thought for a creep who liked to bite people he should get less attention and more discipline.

Hamlet said,'The cat will mew and the dog will have his day.' Oh yeah? Not if I have my way. And I did handle him in my own way. He was easily startled and I was a master of startle. Made him jump whenever I had the urge. He was terrified of me. That pleased me no end.

I first got in deep poo with The Sisters when I nailed that noisy canary's ass. In the old days he would have been a lookout in a coal mine. Instead, he did nothing but chirp—and keep me awake.

So, when Sister I let him out for a little exercise, I waffled him with one swat. The ladies were not pleased.

The second...two, three, or four... times I got in poo with the girls was when my aim was a little erratic and I missed the litter box. Still, they were stoic while sniffing about it.

Then,when I gobbled up their two goldfish for making faces at me all day, I sensed The Sisters were getting a little annoyed with me. But things did not come to a head until I came in late one night looking like something the cat dragged in.

“You have a smelly pussy, “ huffed Sister I.

“And so do you, “ sighed Sister II. “He belongs to both of us. What should we do?”

Now here's where things got scary. Sister I says, “There's more than one way to skin a cat,” and Sister II says, “Yes, we should have him neutered.”

Holy Calico! That was a real tail twitch-er! They were talking about mutilating me and desecrating my crown jewels!

As you might imagine, the next time they cracked a door I was outta there quick as a cat.
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Now they were kind, gentle and loving. They were a-brim with virtue, but had no understanding of my physiological needs beyond food, comfort and safety. Which is surprising considering their mutual addiction to internet porn..

The next few months are a little hazy. I made my way across the country hopping rides with school buses, long-haul truckers, trains and barges. No planes. I'm afraid to fly.

I kept on the move except for a week laid up in Altoona. I stepped out of a new friend's bedroom window onto a hot tin roof and while dancing with the stars fell three stories. Don't believe that myth about cats always landing on their feet. I landed on my back..

I spent the week in an animal shelter. They're used to having people drop off animals; I was their first walk-in and they took extra good care of me.

Early in June, I ended up at The Jersey Shore. There, I hung with some really good bad company. It was party, party, party, and fun, fun, fun. I must confess: I was rather promiscuous as is often the case with tomcats. My new associates nicknamed me 'Kitty Kitty Bang Bang.'

But all too soon, it was Labor Day. The restaurants with all their delicious toss outs were closed. All the vacationers went home and took their pets with them. Buy Oct . I was lonesome, horny, and hungry. I decided it was time to head home.

Don't ever believe that other big myth about cats finding their way home from anywhere. If I didn't ask for directions I would have wandered around the Jersey Pine Barrens forever.

When I showed up at their door, The Sisters, were as happy to see me as I them. But things are different now. I keep a low profile. I'm in by nine every night. Tabitha, I promise I am now monogamous and content myself with our occasional matinees. I amuse myself by hissing at and not eating the parakeet that replaced the canary. (It refuses to talk despite the ladies pleas of 'What's the matter? The cat go your tongue?')

I terrorize the guppies that replaced the tasty goldfish; I drink out of their bowel. As for that big sissy, Fido, I let him know on a regular basis that I still have my claws. I do so by ricocheting off his back and leaving with a clump of his hair.

Oh, and as you've noted, my plumbing is still intact..

So, Tabitha, I can tell you this: missing for action was fun for a while, but now that I'm hanging at home again--.may I say it?... I'm as content as a pussy cat. “

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