Thunderpuss, Houdini Cat

I crept slowly and carefully down the staircase leading to old fieldstone basement, being sure not to make any sudden movements or sharp noises. I my heart I knew this would be the end of me, that vicious beast Thunderpuss always insists on having the last laugh, but still, I had to make my move. I heard a forlorned Mow off in the distance. Then, under my feet, a stair creaked. I turned and tried to run, but it was too late - she was coming right for me, lunging through the air and shooting lasers out of her ass.

I ducked, then tried to jump over the crude barrier we set up in case it came down to this and she came for us, but caught my leg. She stalked me like a gazelle, sizing me up, planning her next move, hissing. I was trapped. I looked around for an escape route or any sort of weapon. I grabbed a camping chair and tried to tame her, shouting; "Back you foul beast! You can't eat me, you'll starve for sure!" but she swatted the chair out of my hands and I knew I was a goner. I backed up slowly, but I was cornered - officially corned. She descended upon me with razor sharp claws, and what pointy teeth she had left.

They say that the common house cat will pick your bones clean within an hour of your death, and show no remorse because of it. How's that for glib? Fortunately I escaped unscathed last night, and live to fight another day. But I know somewhere in my house a big cat is stalking, waiting, remembering...

Revenge of Thunderpuss

Under direct orders from the Wild Beast Tamer we keep on retainer to deal with such things, we've put our hundred pound cat, Thunderpuss, on a diet. That rat bastard went as far as to outline the hidden costs associated with completely cutting the beast off from food altogether and simply letting her hunt; describing the woes of some poor fool who's critter went into full-on liver melt down from what I can only guess was a gross lack of protein and extreme build-up of uric acid in the veins. Having only asked how much to feed her, this extreme response was unsettling, but what did I expect - the man had only one eye and lost both of his feet to diabetes years ago.

Since then, we've cut her intake in half - down to 3 lbs of raw London broil a day, and only one neighborhood child a week as a lite snack. But it's not all peaches and cream... lately, she's been seen wandering aimlessly with a glazed look in her eye, smelling the air. She's looking for prey - just last night she pounced, came within inches of my face and nearly overtook me. I wouldn't have made it out alive if I hadn't conjured up a pure, dominant, alpha presence. Our poor dog doesn't stand a chance.

Just a Minor Threat

I hate meeces to pieces...

The thing about mice is that they are very cunning and masters of strategy. There is no boot big enough, no man patient enough to properly hunt them with any satisfaction. If this were Stratego, my basement would be Australia. They hide in the darkened corners, waiting, laughing. Little damn ninjas.

You'd think our twenty pound cat, Thunderpuss, would have a field day with these little bastards. Well, you have too much faith for the cat lost her instinct to hunt long ago - I think she left it somewhere on the futon in the office upstairs. Her life of leisure is at my expense... she waits upstairs for one of us to die so she can come down and eat us. What a horrible creature. To that I say Eat Me. Eat me Thunderpuss.

Well, I've laid the traps with peanut butter for scent, and bread to give them something to munch on. I've trapped quite a few this season - almost enough to make a small coat. The problem is that they are so damn small that they're terribly difficult and time consuming to skin... and I have no use for a coat that small. What ever will I do with all these tiny hides?