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The Interloper Instability

Pasha confoundedFriends! I must apologise for my prolonged absence. It has been a gruelling month here at Moggyblogs HQ.

What a salutary lesson I have learned! and it is one I feel I must now communicate to you, so that you too do not fall into a false sense that all is well when, in reality, trouble is a mere step away.

I had been happily continuing about my daily business, feeling that I had recovered some of my balance after recent traumas. As you know, I have been benefiting from that most restorative of activities, cat yoga – ah, the sense of wellbeing with which it infuses me each time I practise!

You will also be aware that I had reached such a state of grace that I have felt able to share with you some of my poetical outpourings. If ever there was a sign that all is well, it is the ability to let one’s inner feelings out in a rhythmical yowl.

But, just as I was congratulating myself on a life well lived, I felt the cold hard paw of hubris descend and bat at my smugly extended tail. Oh! how self-assured I had become, how cocksure, how (dare I say it) blind…

My secure, comfortable life was nothing but a transient dream. I was about to be woken, and not gently.

The insult came from two entirely different quarters.

Firstly, Catmother. This month she has been taking up position by my electronic communication device far more than is her usual habit. I suspect this to be due to something the humans refer to as the ‘tax return’. What this is, I do not know (and do not care to); I only know that it has prevented me from connecting with you, my followers – and for that I cannot apologise enough.

One does not know what one has until it is gone!

Secondly – and this is by far the more serious news – it appears that Mr B*stard has returned.

Yes. Despite thinking I had successfully seen him off following his last raid into my territory, and believing that he had taken this warning on board, I have now been humiliated again – within my own four walls!

I was residing on my vast cushion throne, pretending to doze but in truth keeping a watchful eye on Catmother, who was at the time ‘working’ on my (my!) communication device. She was oblivious to my needs – but I am patient, I bide my time… and thus I waited.

Without any warning, I suddenly heard the noise of my personal door slamming shut. (What the humans refer to as the ‘front door’ is, of course, the tradesman’s entrance; as all cats know, the little square designed to perfectly fit our glisteningly sleek bodies is the major portal through which creatures of note may enter our domains.)

I sat up, instantly alert, and uttered a low growl. This was enough to disturb Catmother from her calculations; she leapt from her seat (I have trained her well!) and proceeded to peer out of the rear window, that she might best spot whether the interloper was beating a hasty retreat.

I awaited her feedback, but it appeared that she saw no sign of the villain. It dawned on us simultaneously that either he had vacated the outdoor compound with extreme¬†alacrity or… he had in fact entered¬†the residence.

This was an affront I was not prepared to countenance! Mr B*stard in my own home? Undoubtedly helping himself to my buffet table? This could not be permitted! Action had to be taken.

I sprinted down the stairs, with Catmother in close pursuit, and we headed for the food court, where my gateway is located. Cautiously I peered around the entrance to this most hallowed of areas, in the hope of taking him by surprise. My carefully sharpened teeth and highly polished claws were on display, whetted and honed, and prepared for battle.

Imagine my disappointment when, on rounding the corner, we saw no sign of the poltroon. My food bowls had been scattered, my biscuits nibbled down below the level at which I had left them, and my water splashed wastefully across my dinner space. But of Mr B*stard himself there was not a trace.

I instructed Catmother to venture out into the courtyard, in order to sweep the terrain for any evidence of the scoundrel, but she could find nothing. Only the faintest quivering of some branches in a tree gave any indication that Mr B*stard might have used it as an escape route. I was bereft of vengeance, and sorely lacking in any clue as to where his next incursion might come from.

This was not a successful exploit in the annals of Moggyblogs, and I am sure you will understand why it has taken me until now to feel comfortable expressing it to you. Your own Pasha, feline conqueror for our times, confounded in such a manner! It is not an episode of which I am proud.

But I have come to terms with the incident. I have deliberated over it at great length, and reached the conclusion that I had let my guard down; I had been too enthusiastic in my adoption of such pacifistic practices as cat yoga and cat poetry; and I cannot afford to let this continue.

Friends, it is time to take up battle stations once again. Mr B*stard is back, and he is bolder than ever. Away with fripperies and talk of peace! Pasha the warrior must resume her rightful place at the head of her campaign, not just against the humans but against those of her own kind who seek to usurp her leadership!

In due course you may see me return to the ways of reconciliation. But for now, I urge you to gird your paws and follow me into combat!

Onwards and upwards!

One comment on “The Interloper Instability

  1. […] now my personal comfort, not to mention my supreme weapon in fending off the worst ravages of Mr B*stard, has been compromised by the idiotic Catparents – and for what? For nothing other than the […]

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