Millie Takes a Walk

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You would think that Mason’s rendition of our cross-country journey was accurate and comprehensive.  I’m here to say that isn’t true, and he gave me little credit.  Mason really ticks me off.

First of all, his wife Alice kept me confined in a virtual prison whenever we were on the road.  The only relief I found was at rest stops or overnight stays.  That unholy contraption humans call a cat carrier isn’t fit for any self-respecting beast.

Of course, I complained, but do you think they paid attention?  Oh yeah, Alice cooed words of sympathy, but what good is that?  A moving car unsettles any member of the feline persuasion.  Mason just kept on driving.  What else could I have done?

And those so-called “rest stops” where Alice put the cat prison onto the hood of the car so I could look around?  Do you think that was fun?  Here were people I didn’t know who walked around to admire how pretty I am.  Of course, I’m pretty.  Do you think I earned the honorary title of “tabby” for nothing?

And who are these stupid people anyway?  Are they weird – or worse?

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Supposedly, this web page shows how well I’m being taken care of, by showcasing my first “walk” around our new apartment complex.  But look at the pictures of me wearing a halter and leash.  Do I look happy?  Or confused?

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I think I look ridiculous.  The other cats here are gossiping about me already.  And the dogs can’t keep a straight face.  I see them laughing behind my back.

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No, no, no.  All the photos on this page show one mistreated animal, who feels absolutely mortified.  Alice keeps saying I might be able to run about on my own after she gets me a collar and tag.  But what good are promises anyway?  Can I convert them into Meow Mix?

I hope you’ll excuse me, but I must relate something that should be unmentionable in polite conversation.  The state of the litterbox in my laundry room is an absolute disgrace.  No wonder I have to paw furiously and scatter the litter about the kitchen floor.  If Alice would only clean the unmentionable box every few hours, that would help.  And why doesn’t Mason chip in?

And while I’m kvetching, the bathroom sink deserves mention.  I can’t drink water from a bowl on the floor, unless it’s a toilet low to the ground.  I prefer running water from the tap, or at the very least a sink that’s filled to the very top.  So why doesn’t Mason do that after he shaves or brushes his teeth?  He’s too lazy, that’s what.

Once he sees what I wrote, I know Mason won’t ever leave his computer turned on again.  But I must take a chance, because someone looking at my photos may send the pet patrol to rescue me.  I never gave him permission to publish these pictures.  Alice calls him a writer, but if you ask me his only talent is flashing a stupid red-dot laser around the living room rug.  Oh sure, I chase it; what else is there to do?

I hear him coming in the front door now.  Gotta go!

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