Grampa's Little Angel

“Who’s a good boy! Who’s Grampa’s little angel! Yeah, come give Grampa a kiss!”

Damn fool! Talking to me the way he does. Oh, why do I lick the hand that feeds me! So unseemly! Always depending on the kindness of others! And for what? Two meals a day and a bottomless bowl of cool water? Is it all worth it? A handsome coat for inclement weather. A doggie sofa by the hearth. The occasional tick bath and the subsequent rub-down with a warm towel by Gramma Miriam. Not all that bad here I suppose. Except for that new fucking kitten! God how I want him dead. The little catnip sniffing freak!

Wilson. What kind of name is that for a cat? Naming a cat after a soccer ball? Bah! I wish he’d get kicked, though. That’s a game I could grow to love. Screw the fetch this, fetch that crap. A little game of kick the cat would make my life worth living. Now Lt. Dan, that was a cat. Big bruiser who knew how to be a cat. Didn’t give a fat rat’s ass for anyone. Whored his nights away and slept all day like a log in a lazy forest. Sorry I had to kill him. But he’d sleep his days away and let the mice run wild. He wasn’t getting it done, and I was having none of it. I hate mice. They disturb my slumber.  We needed us another cat. So Lt. Dan had to go. And go he did.

It was on a night like any other when I laid the fresh salmon in the middle of the road. I knew Lt. Dan would stop humping whatever it was he was humping and come running when he got a good whiff of my devious trap.

Then I heard it. I no sooner got a good slurp of toilet water when I hear the screech of tires and the squishing of a cat. Rest in peace, Lt. Dan. If only you could have mastered the mice the way you mastered your whores, you’d still be strutting your stuff. ‘ol boy. You were a cat to be reckoned with.

But his royal highness Prince Wilson gets draped in velvet and a place on the bed. My place on the bed! You’re getting too fat for the bed, Gump.  Bah! Bad enough they name me after an idiot. Now this idiot’s got to sleep on the floor! I’ve since gathered my thoughts into proper devious-plot mode and will soon be rid of Wilson.  I will catch the mice myself. I’m sure there’s a book on the subject.

The only sane one around here is Private Ryan, the family’s snapping turtle.  He never gets in anyone’s way, but he is proud of his snapping abilities, so I do have to keep an eye on my tail.  Private Ryan likes to have his fun. As I wrote in my journal a short time ago, Fucking ouch!. My tail is healing just fine, thank you. I was humbled by the experience.

I did have a plan for Wilson the kitten's demise which involved several sticks of dynamite - I saw it in a cartoon. Yet, I’ve come to discover that one cannot easily obtain such a thing. I fear these cartoon people have a flair for exaggeration that is beyond my scope. So, it was with a great sense of purpose that I perused plan B. I wanted to be correct on this. And after careful consideration I have decided to blast him into oblivion - or a close approximation. It seemed more reasonable.

I found a company that sold a rocket called The King Krãken (pronounced krã'-kin), named for the sinister creature of ancient sea lore.  Perfect. I do not live near the sea, but I do live in a river valley town, so it will have to do. I will calculate the distance from house to river and set a blast-off date. And it’s so long Wilson, it’s been good to know ya!

***

It’s been two weeks since I last wrote in this journal. Much has occurred. Did you know that a dog cannot sign for a package being delivered by the United States Postal Service? It was an outrage I will not suffer lightly. They will soon feel the wrath of my mighty pen. In the meantime I need a plan C. Wilson is getting much too comfortable in his new surroundings.

Also, I am currently in the market for a new tail. I’m afraid I slept too soundly a fortnight ago and was gotten the best of by Private Ryan. I should have consulted with him on my plans to destroy Wilson. He would have made a fine comrade in arms. Now I am bitter towards the old fool. I may just decide to pack a satchel and hit the road. There seems to be no winning around here.

More journal later. I have just gotten a whiff of Gramma’s kidney pie. My bowl will no doubt be filled to overflowing with those tender juicy morsels. It’s pity food for the loss of my tail that I shall accept with all the grace I can muster. I am not a total loser. It’s better to be the cat, but I’ll take what I can get. Good night and may all my future plans pan out.

Photo Credit: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:French_-_To_Agree_Like_Cat_and_D...