Fleabag: The Life and Times of a Punk

Today, I would like to introduce to you all my brother, Fleabag. Here we are in a childhood photo. Fleabag was definitely a punk back in the day. Well, here, I’m going to let him tell you all about himself. Don’t go thinking, “Oh he’s so interesting”, now. Remember, this is MY blog, and I’m the star of the show.

Ok, Fleabag, take it away.

Fleabag: I’ve had a rough life. Ariel is only my half sister, you know. We had different fathers. Which makes it kind of tough. One week, you’re living in relative comfort, with food scraps from the table and a nice comfy pillow to sleep on; then every other weekend and holidays, you’re out in the country eating out of garbage cans. Oh, they try to make it up to you by buying you the latest issue of Cat Fancy or a remote control mouse, but it’s just not the same. Anyways, I used to get my kicks by acting out. I was known as the toughest cat in a three block radius! I would have neighborhood kittens crying in their milk. I always kept a couple of the little nippers around to do my bidding; steal catnip from Mrs. Meyers’ garden, de-bone chipmunks, you know, that kind of thing. One time, I even sponsored a neighborhood “Easter egg” hunt. All the kittens had to do was visit all available birds’ nests, retrieve the eggs, and then get out of my face. Simple! I also was the first cat in the ‘hood to get a set of wheels. Ok, so it was a broken roller skate I pilfered from the Johnson’s trash can, but it was still wheels. I accessorized it with a sprinkling of squirrel molars and glitter. Perfect for terrorizing kittens and small rodents! Ah, those were the days. But alas, those days are behind me. Now, I lead a peaceful but staid life as an overweight Domestic Shorthair in western PA. I am a model citizen, only peeing on the odd pillow here and there, or putting a quick (yet pleasurable) end to the life of the occasional trespassing mouse.

Do you know where your slipper is?

Hey you! Yes, you. Now that I have your attention, I am pleased to inform you that I have taken your left fuzzy pink slipper hostage. It will be returned to you in itty bitty shards by way of my litterbox unless you submit to my list of demands:

-Daily happy hour served promptly at 4 o’clock; prefer an aged port and tenderized woodchuck medallions in a light cream sauce. To be served in the drawing room on family heirloom china.

-Breakfast served promptly at 6:10 a.m. No exceptions for holidays, weekends, or the Chinese New Year. They don’t have a Year of the Cat, I tinkle on their holiday.

-Internet access from 10 a.m. until 4 p.m. daily, with full access to Drs. Foster and Smith and Twitter, which had better be some sort of secret ‘in’ to the world of birds…or else.

-Okie would like her own Visa card.

-A playdate with the baby bluejays in the nest outside the bedroom window. Don’t worry, we won’t let them out of our bite- Er, sight.

-A subscription to Cat Fancy magazine. For you. I already know what I fancy.

-The bed. You can have the floor. And that’s being generous.