Human number 2 went out at lunchtime and came back with some wonderful bags. A big one of food and a small one of treats. Oh, the scent was just fantastic. I made a beeline for them and sniffed in a meaningful way. So meaningful that I don’t think anyone could have misunderstood. But instead of opening the bags and giving me a taste, the human said something that left me completely confused.
“No, Luci, sorry, it’s not for you. This if for your new little friend.”
New little friend? What friend? My friend is Misty our cat, and no one could call him little. I mean, he’s twice my size.
In fact, it was Misty who got me really frightened.
“What’s this puppy business?” he asked me.
“Puppy?” I said, “Well, that would be me, wouldn’t it? I’m the puppy.”
“You? A puppy? Good Lord, woman, you’re two. When I was two I was dominating a neighbourhood. I hadn’t been a kitten for a year and a half.”
“I’m not a puppy any more?” It was a chilling thought. I’ve been the puppy for ages. I’m not sure I’m ready to stop.
“Well, you’re not. So let me say it again: what’s all this puppy business?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know about any other puppy. Why are you asking?”
“Well, those bags that domestic number 2 came back with. They say ‘puppy’. Why?”
“The bags? They say ‘puppy’? How can a bag say anything?”
“It’s written on them.”
That’s the thing about Misty. He’s terribly clever. He can tell what bags and cans and packets and things are saying. It’s all this writing stuff. It’s wonderful. Magical, really. Not sure I’d want to be one myself, but it’s a good thing having an intellectual in the family.
“Mark my words,” he said, “they’re up to no good. They’re plotting something. And it’s not satisfactory.”
Oh, I’m so worried. What are they up to? I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
Maybe I’ll just have a sleep. I find that always helps when things turn tense. It stops me worrying.
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