Ever wonder how close we pet caretakers come to being sued our fur kids?
Ever wonder how close we pet caretakers come to being sued our fur kids?
I held the copy of my letter in my paws. What did I do wrong?
I’d started over eight times. Mom always says first impressions are lasting impressions. I’d wanted my letter to be purrfect. I’d hoped that if he liked what I wrote, he would want to meet me in purrrson. Maybe even solve a case with me.
Dear Mr. Holmes,
I wanted to introduce myself since we are in the same business of detecting stuff. I am Sherlock Herms of the Wonderpurr Detective Agency. I have one assistant, like you do with Watson…only my assistant is my little sisfur, Dori. I don’t suppose you’ve ever had to take your little sisfur on a caper. Anyway! We just solved our first case. It had ghosts that needed to be busted. We were paid two huge quarters. Have you ever solved a case with ghosts? Just wondering. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.
I’m a huge fan of yours. I watched one of your hissstorical doc-mew-mentaries last night on teevee to pick up tips on solving cases. Maybe someday when I get real good at solving cases myself, you and me could maybe get together… Discuss stuff. Or maybe not if you’re real busy. You probably are, so…
Maybe if you have an extra picture of yourself lying around, you could pawtograph it for me. I would hang it over my desk and look at it all the time for inspurration. But if you don’t have time to have your picture taken…or don’t want to just because… I understand.
Countless weeks had passed since I’d mailed my fan letter business correspondence to my hero. Sherlock Holmes had to be back from his case by now. He had to have gone through his stack of mail. He had to have seen my letter. Unless the mail carrier had gone postal and flung my letter into the River Thames…there was only one conclusion: I’d been rejected. Rejected by my hero. Read More
Well, it was a wonderpurr weekend at my house, the place where I live.
Actually, I didn’t spend my weekend at my house. I spent it cooped up in a hotel suite. And…it actually wasn’t very wonderpurr.
This is what happened:
My mom and her friend, Aunt Linda, went to a mystery writers conference and brought me along cuz… Cuz Dad was in charge back at the house and Mom didn’t think he could hack taking care of all of the Wonderpurr Gang, plus the raccoons, plus give me my special diet noms and health supplements.
Besides, why would my author mom leave me, her mews, at home when she’s going to a writers conference?
The thing was… This was a writers conference. Not Blogpaws. And troofully, I wasn’t supposed to be in the hotel cuz of the rule where they used to allow pets but then changed their minds. What the Friskies! How rude!
We packed up the Land Yacht on Thursday and headed out with me riding in either Mom’s lap or Aunt Linda’s. I had my commode and bed in the back, plus Dori packed me a box of refreshments to nom. It was nearing dark when we arrived at the hotel. Usually I jump into my Ride and zoom through the front door, but this time Mom informed me a little skullduggery would be involved. Since I’m now a hardboiled detective with grit in his blood, this sounded right up my alley.
After checking in at the front desk, Mom and Aunt Linda grabbed a baggage cart and brought it out to where I was manning the getaway car. My litter box was disguised as a huge black trash bag. So was my pet stairs. The rest was either in suitcases or moving boxes. After everything was placed on the cart, I was loaded into a pink pet carrier that resembled a duffel bag and set on the top, looking like an ordinary piece of luggage. This is when the excitement started.
The cart was possessed by a demon. I know it was cuz I’m not only a hardboiled detective with grit in my blood, but I’m also a purranormal investigator. I know about ghosts and demons and stuff.
Anyway, that demon jerked the cart to the right and to the left. No matter how hard Mom and Aunt Linda tried to steer it straight, the cart had other ideas. Meanwhile, I’m inside the pink duffel bag getting ready to urp my last meal.
Finally, we got into the elevator and rode up to our floor. Thank Cat the other guests were busy fooling around in their rooms or drinking in the bar. Nobody saw nuffin!
Once inside the room, I was released from my duffel bag and my litter box and refreshment stand was set up. I got a nice bed on the couch. And that’s where my excitement ended.
After Aunt Linda put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, Mom turned on the teevee to the Summer Olympics for me to watch while they were at the workshops. With nothing else to do besides pee and poop and eat…I slept. B-O-R-R-R-I-N-G. Sorry, but the only sport I found remotely inpurresting was when the girls waved ribbons on a stick. Otherwise, it was a total snoozefest.
I wasn’t even allowed to patrol the halls, like I usually do at Blogpaws. And when it came time to eat, I had to deal with leftovers. I tried to find the phone to order room service, but my mom is a sneaky pete and hid it on me. So I had to pretend like I was grateful for the cold greasy bacon and the French dip without the dip she brought me.
I guess more than being disgusted with the teevee programming, no room service, and not getting to zoom the halls…I was pretty ticked off about not going to the conference. These were my hoomons! Mystery writers. Hardboiled crime detective writers. I wanted to rub elbows with them. I wanted to sidled up to the bar with the big names and toss back a few shots of purrbon on ice, looking all brooding and mysterious.
But no. I was treated like an ordinary cat. And we all know there is nothing ordinary about me.
After three very loooong days, I was sprung from my luxury prison. The idea was to grab a luggage cart, load it up like when we arrived, and run out to the getaway car. However, when my mom and aunt discovered that the hotel bellhops wouldn’t let the luggage carts out of their sight cuz…tips… Plan B was put into action.
Plan B went like this:
It was a dark and stormy morning. The sky was pitch black and the rain came down sideways in sheets. Great time to leave the hotel, eh? My hoomons packed everything up, including disguising my commode and pet stairs in their huge black trash bag costumes and sweeping the rug of litter crumbs. They even bagged their trash since maid service had not been welcomed since we arrived. When the room looked pretty spiffy, Mom loaded me into my pink duffel bag, and Aunt Linda grabbed my pet stairs, and we headed out for the Land Yacht. But…when we got to the elevator, it was pretty crowded. We squeezed in so as to not look suspicious, although I overheard Aunt Linda tell Mom that one of the men in the back kept eyeing the pink duffel.
Just between you and me, I’d pawed a zipper open so I could see out with one eye…
Upon reaching the first floor, we hustled out the side door into the storm. The parking lot puddles splashed around my hoomon’s ankles while I snuggled high and dry in the duffel. I was dumped like a sack full of dirty laundry in the back. Mom jumped into the driver’s seat while Aunt Linda ran back to get the bellhop. She took him up to the room to load up, while we pulled around to the entrance. After our stuff was loaded into the back, we pulled away, then parked around the corner so I could be released from my pink prison and my commode could be released from its trash bag disguise.
We rode home without much ado. Life is like that. A lot of prep work and run around…then nuffin.
Anyway, I didn’t get much out of the conference, but my mom got to meet her author idol, Janet Brockovich. Um… Erin Evanovich? Whatever! I didn’t get to meet her, so I’m not impressed.
Do you ever travel with your hoomons? Have you ever been sneaked into a hotel? Details! I want details! Thank you so much for stopping by. Please remember to come back on Friday. Friday is Sherlock Herms Day!
“Hurry up!” I shouted to my fur sibs. “We’re gonna be late!”
“We can’t be late,” Opie contradicted. “A picnic starts when we get there.”
“The picnic starts when we open the picnic basket,” Dori corrected. She had a package of Smittens in her paws. I doubt her tummy is ever empty.
Hi! I’m Herman, a Turkish Angora known as @TattleCat on Twitter. I help my author mom write books, and I purrformed in the 5-star children’s book, FINDING MYA. When Mom decided to write mysteries, I opened the Wonderpurr Detective Agency to learn about the hardboiled crime business. Then I got my first case. It involved busting ghosts. That’s how I got to be the almost-famous purranormal detective known as Sherlock Herms.
I flicked my floofy tail with impatience. Not for the picnic to start…although the aroma of the fried chicken my sisfur Gidget had prepared was making me drool. No, I was impatient to get to the woods where my friend Charley was waiting for us to find him.
Charley Feeble wasn’t exactly lost. You see, seventy-some years ago he was a detective known as Maxwell Shallowford. Charley has some kind of phobia that makes him so shy, he pretends to be someone else. I met Charley during my second case, Mrs. Shallowford’s Ghost. Charley was the ghost. He died from heart failure caused by a demon masquerading as a crabby lady with a loud voice. To better understand what I’m meowing about, you’re welcome to review my case notes for Mrs. Shallowford’s Ghost.
Since Charley is dead…he can no longer work as a hardboiled detective, so he’s teaching me the biz. He said he would also teach me about the spirit world, but we weren’t learning about ghosts today. Last Friday Charley gave me a lesson on Surveillance. Today I’m taking my fursibs into the woods to have a picnic, and while we’re there we’re going to hunt for Charley. Read More
Concatulations, you made it to Friday!
In case you aren’t aware, Friday is Sherlock Herms Day when I invite you to join me on one of my purranormal mystery adventures.
Sometimes my phone doesn’t ring, and that means I’m in-between cases.
So, while I wait for my phone to ring, my new friend Charley has volunteered to teach me about the private hardboiled detective business. And also about purranormal investigating.
You’re welcome to join me. Today’s Lesson with Charley is on the Art of Surveillance.
As many of you know, my wonderpurr wife Belle – @Frankencat1 on Twitter – flew Over The Rainbow Bridge unexpectedly on August 1st. She got really sick really fast, and took off without giving her family or me much time to go through the five stages of grief. But that was her way. She was strong willed and she knew what she wanted. You always knew where you stood with my beautiful Belle.
A little background on my romance with Belle. She began tweeting in July of 2011. I didn’t start tweeting as @TattleCat until October 28, 2011. She followed me on November 8th. Belle was already known as someone who would sit on the porches of sick Anipals.
One of the first times we chatted, she invited me to sit on Cammie’s porch – @HerGraceTheCat. Cammie’s porch was my very first porch, and that’s how I became friends with Cammie, who sadly went OTRB on December 19th.
Belle and I didn’t really chat again until December 22nd when she said she would like to sit with me in the window to enjoy the moonlight. I’m not one to pussyfoot around. I asked her out to a #NipClub Mew Year’s Eve pawty and we danced the night away.
I nommed my breakkie with anticipation of a great day. Charley Feeble wanted to teach me everything he knew about the hardboiled detective business. Also, he would teach me about paranormal stuff since he had personal experience.
Charley is a ghost. I met him during my second case. Charley was also the almost-famous hardboiled detective, Maxwell Shallowford, but had died after being scared into a heart attack from the demon-like Vivian aka Loud Lady. Refer to my case, Mrs. Shallowford’s Ghost, for clarification.
Beside me, nomming her own brekkie, was my lil sisfur Dori. She’s also a partner in my Wonderpurr Detective Agency. “What do you think Charley will teach us today?” I asked her in between bites.
“I’d like to learn how to dwaw dwagons,” she responded. “Or speak Eye-tell-lion.”
My sisfur is the Queen of Non Sequitur. Following her in a conversation is like following Big Foot through the Canadian Rocky Mountains.
I chewed my last bite, then licked my paw to clean my face. “I think Charley is going to teach us about private investigating. Watching for clues. Digging for dirt. Stuff like that.”
Dori licked her plate clean. “I’d rather learn how to dwaw dwagons.”
As I headed up the stairs to my mom’s author office, Opie and Jack fell into step alongside me. They invent stuff to help me solve mysteries. Nepawtism runs deep in my family.
“Charley is going to teach us purranormal stuff,” Opie said. “You think he will wear robes and have a long white beard?”
I looked at my ginger-furred brofur, confused. “Like Dumbledore,” Jack, my tabby brofur clarified. “From Harry Potter.”
“That would be cool,” I said, though I doubted it. We crossed the French doors to my mom’s office, and from there we walked to the door to our house attic. It also served as my Wonderpurr Detective Agency.
On Google I’d read that privacy is extremely important when you’re a detective. I’d needed an office with at least one window, a place nobody else used so I could detect in peace. And the room couldn’t make my meow echo in case someone eavesdropped in on my meetings. Our house attic next to my mom’s author-office was purrfect.
I’d once had my heart set on an office in a dingy building, slowly collapsing under the weight of time and despair, but then, during the case of Mrs. Shallowford’s Ghost, I’d watched our house go through that very transformation and now realized I was happy doing business at home, near my mom.
As I pawed open the door, I expected to see my usual office, with my couch, table of magazines, and my huge desk filled with lots of nooks and crannies. The desk came with my office. Actually, it came with the house. It’s too big to get through the door without chopping to pieces. Our home was built around an older house that refused to be torn down. I found out why. The desk—my attic office—had belonged to Charley when he was alive and practicing being a detective in secret. After he died, the house began to crumble, but Charley loved his office and refused to let the bulldozers tear it down. That’s why our house had to be built around Charley’ home.
Instead of seeing my office, however, I saw Charley had created a classroom.
Jack and Opie’s tails drooped with disappointment. “No Hogwarts for us,” Opie grumbled.
“Good morning, pupils!” Charley appeared, smiling and happy to get his first lesson underway. Seeing our disappointment, he frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“They were expecting Hogwarts,” I told him. “It’s okay. This is a real nice classroom.”
Behind me Dori and the others had arrived: my sisfurs Peaches, Gidget, Chauncie Marie, Candy, and my other brofurs Jesse, Nikolas, Frank and Noah. Charley wanted everyone to attend his classes. He said the Wonderpurr Detective Agency needed the participation of the entire Wonderpurr Gang in order to be… Well. Wonderpurr!
Charley looked confused. “What is Hogwarts?” Charley died back in the 1940s and had remained there until he followed us home to our time, seventy-some years into the future. He had a lot of catching up to do.
I crossed to my mom’s author library in the corner and tried to hand him the first book, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. He couldn’t hold it, of course. He can’t hold anything cuz he’s a ghost. Stuff falls through his hands to the floor.
“Place the book on my— I mean, your desk,” he told me. I did, and watched as Charley disappeared inside the book.
We all stood around with our jaws dropped, and Frank whispurred, “Cool!”
A minute later, the book talked to us.
We obediently filed into Mom’s author office and closed the door to my detective office. We then stood around with our hands in our pockets, waiting.
Nikolas checked his watch. “Is this going to take long? I have a date with an unspayed Siamese.”
“And I want to hunt birds,” Frank added. “Also, there’s a squirrel with my name on it.”
“You may return!” we heard Charley call out. I reopened the door.
We all exploded into yowls of joy. Charley gave us a few minutes to explore the classroom, then asked us to have a seat.
“Thank you all for giving up your prowling and hunting and napping for my lessons,” Charley said once we settled down. “For my first lesson, I’d like to open with a little history about private investigating. The very first private investigation agency was opened by Allan Pinkerton, who was born in Glasgow, Scotland in 1819. Pinkerton played a significant role in history, as it is alleged he became aware of the plot to assassinate President Abraham Lincoln whilst en route to his inauguration in Washington D.C. Pinkerton overtook Lincoln’s entourage and persuaded him to change his itinerary, thus thwarting the attempted assassination.”
I wanted to raise my paw and ask where Pinkerton was four years later when the president was assassinated at the Ford Theater, but I didn’t know how to ask without sounding like a know-it-all. I’m my author mom’s mews. We read a lot of history stuff when doing research for our books.
Then I saw Dori raise her paw, and I held my breath. Dori hangs around our mom’s office, but she doesn’t care much about history. She’s more about if Mom has any snacks in her desk drawers, and likes to sleep on top of her novel notes. I could see she had a package of Smittens in her lap, so I doubted she would ask about Charley serving ‘wefweshments.’ I couldn’t imagine what question she had.
“What about code names?” Dori asked.
Charley looked as confused as I felt. “Code names? You mean like kind the Secret Service uses for presidents and their families? The use of code names began as security when sensitive electronic communications were not encrypted. Today, code names simply serve for purposes of brevity, clarity, and tradition. They didn’t use code names when President Lincoln was alive. They began under President Franklin Roosevelt. Oddly, he didn’t have a code name, but President Kennedy’s code name was Lancer. President Clinton’s is Eagle. President George Bush’s is Trailblazer. President Reagan’s was Rawhide. President Obama’s is Renegade.”
Dori again raised her paw. “I don’t know all them hoomon’s. I want to know what our Code names are.”
“Like OO7!” Opie yowled.
“And Q!” Jack joined in.
“Agent 99!” Peaches and Chauncie Marie said in unison.
“Agent J from Men in Black,” Jesse said, and Frank joined in with, “Secret Squirrel.”
Charley and I exchanged discreet glances. I felt a little embarrassed. This was play stuff. Pretend private investigators. Not real hardboiled detective with grit in his blood stuff like Sam Spade, Philip Marlowe and my hero, Sherlock Holmes.
“Well,” Charley said, “why don’t we spend today picking out code names, and then get down to the actual lessons next time? Dori. What code name would you like to have?”
From her expression, clearly she had already decided on one. “Pwincess.” To accent her choice, she slid a crown onto her head. It looked like one her boyfriend, Wills aka @HRMeownessWills, had given her.
“That’s an excellent code name,” Charley said diplomatically.
Opie snickered behind his paw. “She should have the code name, Destroyer.”
At our house, Dori is famous for making stuff crash. I watched her eyes narrow. I’d seen that look before—right before I got a headache. She claims she can give migraines just by thinking one into your head, and I believe her.
“Your code name should be Opipotamus,” she growled, “cuz yoo haz a big butt.”
While everyone meowed out loud, I hid my smile behind my paw. Charley’s white brows lifted with surprise.
“So does Chauncie Marie,” Frank shouted.
Our tabby sisfur’s eyes grew large with hurt. “Meowmy said I am the Beyoncé of the cat world.”
Peaches glared at Frank. “Your code name should be Toxic Tabby after what you do to a litter box.”
I put my paws over my eyes. This wasn’t going well. I could see by how pale Charley looked—even for a ghost—that he was getting nervous. Charley once told me he liked girl cats because he had once been bit by a boy cat. I couldn’t guarantee there wouldn’t be a brawl with lots of scratching and biting if someone didn’t say something to defuse the tension.
I waved my paws. “Let’s not insult each other. This is supposed to be fun.”
“Fun?” Opie snorted. “I saw you laughing behind your paw at Dori calling me Opipotamus. Your code name should be Skinny Ass’d White Boy.”
I felt the fur on my neck stand on end. “That’s getting purrrsonal. I can’t help being a lightweight.”
“No more purrrsonal than me being called Opipotamus because I’m a heavyweight.”
“I was thinking of using Monkey Boy,” I told everyone. “That’s what Mom calls me.”
Jack and Jesse started scratching and screeching like chimpanzees, while the others rolled their eyes. They’re all jealous of my relationship with our mom cuz I’m the favorite.
“I want my code name to be Chef,” said Gidget, “because I help Mom cook.”
We all ignored her, preferring to argue among ourselves.
“I don’t want my code name to be Amazing,” Candy’s sweet little voice penetrated the cacophony. (That’s a ten dollar word for a harsh discordance of sound. Remempurr, I’m my author mom’s mews.) “The pressure is too much for me to live up to it.”
We all stopped arguing to look at her. Candy is our newest sisfur. She’s a Calico and so far she’s fit in pretty good. We all like her, even Opie.
I watched his whiskers twitch. I knew from experience that Opie can be cutting and brutal with insults. I hoped he wouldn’t be mean to her. She’s only a year old; still a baby.
“Amazing would be a lot of pressure,” he agreed. “But I have a better code name for you. It’s the one Mom calls you because you’re always stripping off your collar.”
We all looked at Candy’s throat – naked of her pink collar.
“Your code name should be Bubbles,” Opie told her. “Bubbles the Stripper Kitty.”
Everyone laughed. Including Charley. Including Candy. She clapped her paws. “That’s a fun code name. I like it! I’m Bubbles.”
The Wonderpurr Gang then got down to business of picking out serious code names.
Jesse and Nikolas are both black panfurs and look like twins, so they chose Toxic Twins 1 & 2.
Peaches chose Alpha Queen cuz…she is.
Chauncie Marie chose Meyowcé, and Gidget changed her mind from Chef to Cuisine.
Our newest outside brofur, Noah, chose the code name Ex-Stray because that’s what he is. Jack chose Agent J (He’s a huge Men In Black fan), while Dori and Candy stuck with Princess and Bubbles respectively.
Frank decided he liked Peaches’ insult, Toxic Tabby, and Opie chose Gingerman for his deep orange fur.
I chose Monkey Boy because that’s what my mom calls me.
“Hey Charley!” I said when we were getting ready to leave. “You didn’t pick a code name for yourself. What name do you think would be good for you?”
Charley thought about it a moment. Then, with a twinkle in his eyes, he replied, “I think my code name is Mud.”
We all stared at him, not getting the joke, if there was one.
“Meet back here next Friday,” Charley then told us. “Your first lesson on mastering the techniques of private investigation will begin then.”
Hope to see you all join us, too. Until next Friday, have a Wonderpurr week!
If you’re new to Sherlock Herms Purranormal Mysteries and want to catch up, here are the links to my first case, The Case of the Dancing Ghosts, and my second case where I met Charley Feeble, Mrs. Shallowford’s Ghost. Also, you can click on the links located on the sidebar of this website.
P.S. If you’d like to learn more about the books me and my mom write, visit our Author Page.
Remember the 1961 Twilight Zone episode starring six-year-old Billy Mumy? Bill was a child actor in the sixties, with one of his most famous roles as Will Robinson in Lost In Space.
For me, his most memorable role was as Anthony Freemont, a little boy in Peakesville, Ohio who made the rest of the world disappear because it displeased him. No one can make Anthony mad. If they do, they will be sent into the cornfield.
You don’t need Stephen King’s imagination to know what that means.
Anthony is described in the plot summary as a monster. A mutant with godlike mental powers that include mind-reading. Everyone is under his rule. Even his parents. Children and adults both tiptoe nervously around him, constantly reassuring him how everything he does is “good.”
I saw this episode during a Twilight Zone marathon a couple weeks ago, and it struck me that I’m living with my very own Billy Mumy.
His name is Opie. He’s eight-years-old with a handsome face, ginger fur and golden green eyes.
But like the opening narration for Twilight Zone’s “It’s A Good Life” states… When you look into those eyes, you’d better think happy thoughts. Because the mind behind them is absolutely in charge.
Billy… I mean, Opie, came to us as a three-month-old kitten, running amok in my yard among the raccoons and fox. He fell into place easily among the Wonderpurr Gang, and made fast friends with Barney.
Barney had insecurity issues and the devil in Herman took advantage by picking on Barney. It wasn’t until Opie joined the family and befriended Barney that things shifted out of Herman’s favor.
Opie read Herman like a book and taught Barney not to be afraid of him. In return for these lessons, Barney taught Opie how to spray stuff that he didn’t like.
This is how Opie evolved into Billy Mumy. I mean, Anthony Freemont—the Twilight Zone kid.
Barney has moved on, but his lessons on retaliation for things that displease him are still going strong. For a while, everything displeased Opie. The only kick he got was giving Herman a hard time. Then Peaches moved in and Opie fell in love and lightened up.
So much so that he allowed her son, Jack, to move in after Jack had something bad happen to him and became very sick. Opie took Jack under his wing and today they are more than brofurs…they’re in a serious bromance.
Then along came Dori, and Opie was done. She charmed the dickens out of him, and entertained him mostly by hounding Herman for attention.
I feared the worst when Frank moved in a year later, but nope. Frank was tired of brawling and wanted a quiet, easy life. He let Opie be The Boss and was content to kiss his ginger ass.
Around here, Opie is known as The Watcher. He watches everything, mostly from a floor basket where he blends in so often you’re not aware you’re being watched.
But you are.
All the time.
Like Santa Claus, Opie sees you when you’re sleeping; he knows when you’re awake. He also know when you’re opening cans of Fancy Feast and there will be hell to pay if you feed him last.
Our newest – Candy – sized up the situation right away and made googly eyes at Opie. He now thinks the sun rises and sets on Candy.
We’ve had two-years-worth of Opie Joy. Then Jesse got a hole chewed into his butt, and his recoop time demanded he take refuge in Ray’s office. Opie set up camp outside the door. I was deluded into thinking he wouldn’t mind having Jesse recover inside a room that wasn’t being used.
I was wrong. But I didn’t know that yet. So I invited Nikolas inside to escape the dangerous heatwave that had settled over our town. Nik is Dori’s dad. He’s a nice guy. Never causes trouble.
Frank doesn’t like Nikolas. Frank also doesn’t like Jesse. And when I gave in to my delusion that everyone was going to behave like one big happy family…
Enter Billy Mumy cat.
His pal, Frank, wasn’t happy that Nik and Jesse were indoors, so Opie soaked the office door. He then soaked the cat bedding. He then soaked a wall or two. A rug or three. The bag of dog food for the raccoons. Nothing was considered beyond being soaked.
I quickly ran out of cat pee cleaner and patience.
As I write this Opie has entered my office and is gazing at me with his lovely golden green eyes. He’s really gorgeous. I mean, this cat has the most awesome orange fur I’ve ever seen on any cat in the entire wor–
Okay, the asshole just left.
Where was I?
Oh – just ran out of cat pee cleaner and patience.
Once Jesse was healed, he and Nik were escorted back outside with profuse apologies and a new garage fan. Still, the spraying has not quite stopped.
I made the Cardinal Sin of forgetting that Nik had slept on a cushy pet bed whilst enjoying his air conditioned suite in Ray’s office. This past weekend I put the bed down for someone else to enjoy. The next morning it was soaked.
I washed it. Twice! Put it down and again it was soaked.
I washed it again. Twice! And this time I covered it with a layer of Downy dryer sheets and a thick towel folded in half with another layer of Downy dryer sheets in between the layer.
I then put Opie on the bed and rubbed him all over it to get his personal stink ground in.
So far so good.
Good Opie! That’s real good!
If you’re interested, here is a clip from the Twilight Zone episode, It’s A Good Life.
Do you have a Billy Mumy cat at your house? A cat that holds you hostage with threat of bad behavior? I would love to hear how your cat rules your roost.
Thanks so much for leaving a comment, and have a Wonderpurr Day!
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