Cleo the Cat: “What the hell are we looking at?”
Scotch the Cat: “Oh, that’s right. You’re new around here. I forgot. I forget a lot of things. I once forgot that if the toy-let seat is up you can’t use it as a long-ching pad to get to the-”
Cleo: “Knock if off with your insipid neurotica. Back to me. I am not new here. I’ve ruled this queendom for years. And I’ve never seen this kind of abhorrence blocking my parade route when I prance around and let the little people see how stunningly beautiful I am.”
Scotch: “Uh huh. Well, a long time ago when it was just me here, and I liked that part a lot, Daddy made these really big Wilma Jess.”
Cleo: “Wilma Jess? I know that’s not an actual thing or person because I know you. Can you maybe help me figure out what word you really mean?”
Scotch: “Oh. Um. Well…”
Cleo: “Okay, let’s try a different route. What do you do with a Wilma Jess? Can we sleep on it in the sun? Is it something we can eat? Does she sing country songs about heartache and beer?”
Scotch: “Oh. It has lots of little houses and little cars and little people and lots and lots of lights. So many lights. Blinking lights. They turn on and off and on and off and on and off and I stare at them until I start to… remember long times ago… when I was a little kitty and I… everything was shiny and new and…”
Cleo: “Stay with me, Jack! Don’t let go!”
Scotch, eyes unfocused: “Mommy?”
Cleo, grabbing a nearby catnip-infused mouse toy and walloping Scotch upside the head: “Snap out of it!” Then she wallops him again, clearly inspired by Cher double-slapping Nicolas Cage in Moonstruck and secretly hopping that she also wins an Acatamy Award.
Scotch, eyes clearing: “Why you hatin’?”
Cleo: “I’m not hatin’. I’m just bored with the way you twisted ginger cats can’t stay focused for longer than two seconds. Now, the little houses and the little people and the lights. Is there snow involved?”
Scotch: “Yes. Well, not real snow. It smells like chopped-up plastic bits. Just like when Daddy buys us the cheap wet food instead of the good stuff.”
Cleo, sighing: “So you’re talking about Christmas villages. Not Christmas Wilma Jess.”
Scotch: “Oh. Maybe. Every day is a new day for me.”
Cleo: “You think? Anyway, this contraption here that’s blocking my parade. Is it an important thing or should I kill it and then leave it in the hallway for Daddy to find later and wonder what happened?”
Scotch: “Don’t kill it. No. It’s the thing that makes the lights come on in the tiny town. You have to see the lights. The blinking lights. So many blinking lights. So many blinking, blinking…”
Cleo, professionally administering a third slap with the infused mouse. “I’m too busy to deal with your relapses. So, the village is even more exciting than the blinking Christmas tree? The one that mesmerizes me until I chew on the branches and then recycle them late at night and wake Daddy up with my retching?”
Scotch: “Even better. You can attack the little people in the village and they fall down and break into lots of pieces that scatter everywhere and Daddy cuts his feet in the morning.”
Cleo, near rapture: “Really? I’m so excited I can barely breathe.”
Scotch: “But don’t touch that thing in front of us with your paw.”
Cleo: “Why? Everything in this queendom is mine. I can touch anything and then pretend that I didn’t.”
Scotch: “It’s full of Lex Tricity.”
Cleo: “You mean electricity.”
Scotch: “Yeah, that’s what I said. I touched it once and fire shot out of my boo. Then I forgot and touched it again and I became a soprano.”
Cleo: “And you’re already a castrato. Life must really suck for you.”
Scotch: “It doesn’t matter. I won’t remember in the morning.”
And so begins a fresh series of stories in the Village of the Damned chronicles. Some of you will rejoice at the news. Some of you will yawn and see what’s on Netflix. We’ll see how it goes…
Categories: The Stories
Bonnywood Manor 
What chatty cats! Great conversation. 🐈
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Thanks, Sadje. The kitties have been with me long enough that I can channel them effortlessly… 😉
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That’s good.
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Scotch is a soprano. Poor guy.
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He’s not the only one. Have you tried wearing these skinny jeans that are all the rage lately?…
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This made me chuckle all the way through – you have found a way into the minds of cat! Love it :O) x
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I may have found my way in there, but I’m not sure I can get back out…
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Why would you want to ;O) xx
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Lex Tricity! Clever. I’m intrigued to see where this story goes.
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Thanks, Ally. Who knows where this might lead…
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Your cats need to meet my cats. The world will never be the same.
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No, it won’t. Which is why they will never meet. Wait, who left the back door open?
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I guess I’ll tag along since everyone knows that Disney is taking down Netflix and it will soon be a ghost-town where old Gujarat princesses run through fields with only one tree.
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Can I run with the princesses as well? Because it feels like something I should do…
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Yes, just don’t get caught
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Yay for cats and Christmas Village tales! 🙂
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I completely approve of this message… 😉
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I CHUFFIN LOVE SCOTCH!
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How can you not?
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I’ve just shared this post for my partner to read. He loves your posts (and we are also owned by a cat), but I think I may have sent him the link just to my comment. I didn’t realise that was a thing. That should be an interesting few seconds for him 😊. This really is now amongst my all time faves.
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That is an alarming amount of plugins. Have you set yourself on fire yet?
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That’s a rather personal question, don’t you think? 😉
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This is quite the intro for the Village – I approve immensely. I hope you compensated your spokes-kitties with the good stuff. 😉
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The spokes-kitties now have their own agents, so I’m guessing my generous good-stuff compensations have led them down the Uppity Road and there will soon be hell to pay…
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BWAHAHAHHAHAHHA!!! *wiping eyes* Oh my goodness. NOW I know where Huny got the idea (long ago and far away) for chewing on the cords…. I believe fire shot out of her boo too and not in a good way at all. She and the cats have obviously been in some sort of communication that pre-dates our knowing each other. Do you suppose the Uprising of the Animals of Astute Wit (which sort of leaves Scotch out) is real? Horrors. Queen Cleo and Princess Diamond the Huny Dog. Our potential new ‘evil’ over lord-ettes…
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It’s entirely possible that Cleo and Huny have been corresponding for quite some time, as Cleo refuses to give me the password for two of her three email accounts. (I tired using the names of all of her favorite treats to break the passwords, but it was a no go.) And come to think of it, Cleo regularly receives packages that in the mail that smell suspiciously like Utah. Hmm…
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AHA!! Now I know where the ‘mysteriously disappearing’ stamps got to. Since there was me and she, it had to be one of us responsible for their vanishing like a *something* in a high wind, and I didn’t do it. Even though my desk drawer looks vaguely like Apocalypse Now…. She is the guilty party!! Well at least I’m not losing my mind (entirely).
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