Day Two of my year long, daily blogging challenge.
If you’d like to listen to me read it, click below:
Yesterday morning, there was a life and death struggle in my office.
I thought that when I sat down to write, that I would have peace and quiet, and I’d come up with something brilliant to write about. But, instead, there was a wild hunt on the Serengeti: the Viking Pirate Kitties were on the prowl for a wildebeest.
Just in case you aren’t acquainted with my blogs, let me give you a bit of background.
I have Viking Pirate kitties, two of them: Punkin’ n Squish. They are sisters, gingers—which I’m told is unusual for female cats—and partners in crime.
Squish is the dominate one, well, that’s not entirely factual. According to Squish—and I have no power to say otherwise since I’m just a stupid, hairy, huuuman, basically just a partially shaved monkey—she is the creator and mastor of all universes (and there are apparently a shit-ton of them, which she says she creates and destroys while napping).
Punkin’ is the runt of the litter, or is that pride? She is about half to three quarters the size of her dominant sister, and is the cutest thing in all of history, and before, since history is a stupid, huuuman construct anyway, same as time. Punkin’s official title is the Midgard Kitty, since she curls up in a ball and sucks on her own tail—to keep the universes from ripping apart, or is that to keep her sister from doing the same? I don’t know.
So, while I was attempting to write my first, daily blog post, they were chasing a massive wildebeest, behind my fucking desk. Yeah, not in the kitchen, not downstairs in the basement, but behind the damned desk.
They alternated, the two of them, between ripping at paper next to the wastebasket, scratching under the desk to try to reach this poor wildebeest, who has somehow managed to cling to the desk in the space between the back and the wall.
Oh, wait, I forgot to introduce the victim in this wild hunt: the wildebeest.
Wildebeest is the catchall term used by the Viking Pirate Kitties to describe any and all four-legged, inferior creatures–as opposed to the two-legged ones, huuumans and their cousins: monkeys. Most of the time, the term wildebeest refers to the inferior creatures that we stupid, huuumans refer to as ‘mice.’
And that’s what was behind my desk: a mouse, I mean, wildebeest. I have to be careful because Squish can read minds, and I just heard her jump down off of the radiator in the kitchen, which means she’s coming in here to correct me, or wait till I die so she can eat me, I’m not really sure which (the italics mean that I’m whispering this to you so she won’t overhear). She takes umbrage to me misrepresenting the characters in their hunting stories.
So, this wildebeest, probably shaking his ass off in fear, had somehow managed to climb up the back of the desk—which doesn’t have a set of stairs, or a ladder, or any footholds to mention (in fact, it’s mostly smooth as glass)—and found a spot, juuuust out of reach of the massive tigers, I mean, Viking Pirates’ claws.
And how they did try to reach that shivering wildebeest.
Squish was under the desk, on her back, clawing upward, while her tail-sucking sister, Punkin’, was on top, behind my laptop—remember, I’m trying to fuckin’ write during all this—straining to reach said wildebeest from the top side. But try as they might, they could not reach him.
That doesn’t mean they stopped. Hell no! They just kept switching positions with each other, one on top, the other on the bottom, one on the left side, one on the right, tangled up in computer and power-cords between the desk and the gas stove on one side, making noise digging through scrap paper that had managed to fall between the desk and the paper shredder on the other side of the desk.
Then they’d switch places again, sometimes walking across the top of the desk, in front of my face, stepping on keys on the laptop, typing randomness into my masterpiece. It was fuckin’ great. Truly, it was. Back and forth, over and under, repeat.
“Daddy, you do not know stuff. You are just a monkey. You should get out of my way, and bring me some treats while you are up.”
That’s how Squish talks. She’s very bossy, and sounds like a cross between English aristocracy, and an American blueblood, princess. She never uses contractions, and she certainly doesn’t lower herself to curse; that’s Punkin’s job.
Punkin’ curses like a dockworker, but at a very high pitch, one that I can’t really reproduce—I need my girlfriend, Patience, in here to do that. She’s the master of impersonating the Viking Pirate Kitties.
And the hunt continues…
Yeah, eventually, after Paysh and I had eaten breakfast and watched the Viking Pirates circling the desk for about 20 minutes, the bedraggled wildebeest managed to escape one hiding place, behind the black mountain that is my desk, only to be cornered behind the door to the office, where Squish found it.
Did she kill it?
Fuck no, of course not. She just stared at it, pawed at it for a minute until the thing figured out she wasn’t ready to eat, and escaped under and around the door into the kitchen, to the other wildebeest, refuge: the shoe rack near the back door. At last I saw, that’s where he was. Of course, I will probably step on his eviscerated corpse, later this morning, hopefully with shoes on.
It’s not so pleasant when you’re barefooted.
Episode 3 of the Daily Blog? Who knows. Maybe I’ll tell you about Punkin’s wild, solo hunt for a really big wildebeest.