the camembert affair

I was lying on the chesterfield in the family room, pondering some of life's great unanswered questions, with the television droning on in the background.

Right at the top of my questionable list was why I called the piece of furniture upon which I was lying a chesterfield and not a couch or a sofa. Who exactly was Chester and what did he grow in his fields?  If smart, he grew nip but truth be told, chesterfields aren't known for their intelligence.  I had no evidence at paw of this Chester fellow havin' grown nip in his fields, at all.  MOUSES!

Lyin' alongside me on said chesterfield was a piece of cheese.  I had spotted it earlier, while waitin' in the kitchen for Peep #1 to give me my meds, and snatched it before she knew it was missin'. Havin' hidden it safely away from any other cats, I now had my opportunity for an evenin' snack, in peace.  I gave it a sniff.  Cheddar.  Yum.  Mmm...

Down the hatch went the cheese and I curled up on the chesterfield and yawned the mightiest of yawns.  The television continued to drone on in the background.

I awoke with a start at the sound of a squeaky voice sayin', "Psst...  Cat!  Are you awake, Mr. Cat?"  Opening one eye, I spotted the intruder sitting next to me on the chesterfield.  He appeared to be the mouse I had previously met known as M1, although truth be told, the mice of Mouseland all look alike to me.

"There's more cheese in the kitchen," I said to the mouse before rolling over in an attempt to go back to sleep.

"I'm not looking for cheese, Mr. Cat.  I'm looking for you.  Your assistance is once again required."

"Awww...  MOUSES!" I cried before slowing standing up on my paws.  "If it isn't one thing, it's another..." I muttered as I followed M1 through the family room and into the kitchen that had mysteriously morphed into the Great Red Hall into which we had both travelled before.

There were rows upon rows of seats and in each seat sat a mouse, one looking just like the next. In futility, I shook my head to clear it.  Didn't work.  Dozens of mice still sat there, staring at me with mousy grins.  MOUSES!

Pursing my lips I asked little M1, "So what has the Big Cheese done this time?"

As if in answer to my question, I heard an approaching commotion.  Peering through the rows of mice and over to the back wall, I saw the Big Cheese, himself, being coaxed out of a cupboard where he had apparently been hiding.  "I'm coming!" the Big Cheese cried with indignation before snatching a piece of Gorgonzola from another mouse's paw.

I narrowed my eyes and looked coldly at the Big Cheese.  He faltered for just a moment before collecting himself.  "Don't look at me like that, Cat," he spat.  "Believe it or not, I was the one who called for your help."

My whiskers twitched suspiciously.  The Big Cheese asking for my help?  Somethin' smelled fishy, for sure.

"Don't look so surprised, Cat,"  said the Big Cheese. "Even I can see where your expertise in these matters might be warranted."

At that very moment the oddest thing happened.  A black limousine appeared right before my eyes, driving straight through the red hall at the greatest of speeds.  It screeched to a halt before the Big Cheese and me and out hopped several staffers carrying trays of crystal goblets filled with orange juice, I do believe.  One placed a goblet in my paw and I noticed that hanging from its stem was a tiny little tag.  Turning it over I saw a price of sixteen dollars. "Sixteen dollars for a glass of..."  I stopped myself short.  Sixteen dollars seemed like an awful lot for a glass of orange juice but then, I had no idea what the going rate of orange juice in Mouseland was.  Might actually be reasonable.  I didn't want to say anything more until I had all the facts.

Mesmerised, I watched the mice from the limo, walking down each of the rows, passing out glass after glass of orange juice to the mice of the great red hall.  My fascination was interrupted by the sound of the Big Cheese's voice.  Apparently he had been talking to me the entire time.  MOUSES!

"And I want you to investigate HER."  The Big Cheese pointed to a little female mouse in the back row.

I padded toward the little mouse who was trembling with fear.  Her whiskers were quivering and her paw shook uncontrollably as she held out some receipts.  "These are all I have," she sobbed.  "I didn't keep every one.  I was told I didn't have to.  Or was I not told that I did?"

But before I could reach said little mouse, my paws hit a wet patch and slid in opposite directions.  I found myself lying in a pool of sixteen-dollars-a-glass orange juice.  "Awww...  MOUSES!"

Several mice from the back row cried in unison, "Mice.  The plural of mouse, is mice, Mr. Cat."

Those darned grammar mice police.

I picked myself up and continued toward the back row but felt something soggy sticking to my now wet paws.  I lifted one only to find it covered in bits of broken cracker.  Looking around, I saw that there were broken crackers scattered all over the floor.  How had I not noticed them before?

There were broken crackers here and broken broken crackers there.  There were broken crackers just about everywhere.  And buckets of ice containing Camembert.  MOUSES!

Why was the Camembert on ice?  Why where the crackers broken?  And why-oh-why did no one else seem to care?

I could feel the Big Cheese pushing me forward towards the little mouse with the paw full of receipts.  I could feel his steely fingers prodding my spine.

Realising he wanted me to overlook the broken crackers and ice cold Camembert and knowing that I couldn't, I spun on my tail and pointed right back.

Before I could question the Big Cheese any further, the second strange sight of the evening occurred.  A pizza delivery car came hurtling through the red hall, driving right through the pool of orange juice and splashing mice in the front row.  "Free pizza!" cried the driver before doling out slices of pie.

"Do you have any with Parmesan and nip?" I asked, finding the aroma quite enticing.

"No nip pizza," he answered, "but all of our pies are partisan."

"No, Parmesan," I clarified.

"Yes, partisan," he replied.

"Never mind," I said, once more shaking my head.  "Thought we were talking 'bout cheeses and pies.  Sorry 'bout that.  MOUSES!"

And once more I heard the cries of those mice sittin' on benches way at the back.  "Mice!" They cried in unison.  "The plural of mouse is mice, Mr. Cat!"

I rolled my eyes, gettin' ready to give those grammar mice police a piece of my mind but decided instead to sit back on my haunches and enjoy a free piece of pie.  "Partisan pizza is actually quite tasty," I murmured, "but would be better with nip as everything would."

Then just as I was about to grab a second slice of pie, the lights in the family room turned on and Peep #1 stood before me.  "Time for bed," she informed me before scooping me up.  I looked around for the pizza man but alas, he was gone.

MOUSES!

                    **********************************************************

Please remember that throughout the month of April, a portion of all sales of the book Rescued: The Stories of 12 Cats, Through Their Eyes will go to the wonderful Anjellicle Cats Rescue of New York, helpin' them to help save cats' lives.  You can purchase your very own copy at your local book store or on Amazon by clicking right HERE.  You'll wanna stock up for holiday gift-giving, for sure.  PURRS.

in the news

HOLY FLYIN' FRYIN' PANS!  Is that a robin I see?  Out there in the garden?  With snow still on the ground? MOUSES!

Unfortunately, the robins are out and about, here in Nova Scotia.  I feel really sorry for the little guys 'cause they must be starvin', for sure.  We still have a couple of feet of snow and there isn't a worm to be found.  With all this wonky winter weather most likely caused by global warming, the early bird can no longer get his or her worm.  MOUSES!

But speakin' of things that fly, did you hear 'bout the new Amazon drones bein' tested right here in Canada?  Well not right here at my house or anythin' like that.  In fact, they're testin' them on the other coast but up here in Canada, nonetheless.  MOUSES!

One day in the not-too-distant future, we'll be able to order somethin' from Amazon and have it delivered right to our doorstep in thirty minutes or less.  That's right, they're sayin' that small items will be flown in by drone right to your kitty condo door.  Talk about customer service!  We're livin' in the future, for sure.

You know, you expect stuff like that in science fiction and Harry Potter but in reality?  Never thought I'd see the day.  Imagine bein' able to order up a copy of Rescued: The Stories of 12 Cats, Through Their Eyes and with a little click here and a little click there, find that very same book sittin' on your doorstep, thirty minutes later.  Wow.  Currently, we have to wait at least twenty-four hours.

And speakin' of Rescued:  The Stories of 12 Cats, Through Their Eyes, do you have your copy as of yet?

But back to the drones.  I'm wonderin' if the peeps runnin' Amazon might be interested in usin' eggbeater teleportation technology with their new endeavour.  It, too, is the technology of the future, for sure.  MOUSES!

You know, I'm just itchin' to go on another adventure.  Itchin' and itchin' and ITCHIN'!  What's that, Peepers?  No, I do not have fleas.  It's a different kind of itchin', you see.  MOUSES!

Don't tell the peep but word on the street is that Silver and Savvy and I have an upcoming adventure up our sleeves.  Yup, tucked right up there in our sleeves.  We're plannin' somethin' super big, for sure.

Note to self:  Buy a cat-sized sweater or somethin' with sleeves.  MOUSES!

And did you hear about my birthday?  I'M GONNA BE TWELVE.  It's true, exactly one week from today, I'll be turnin' the big one-two.  I'm hopin' they'll be some nip.

Of course, with my recently diagnosed medical condition, things here have been a little touch and go.  For a while there, the peeps were wonderin' if I'd make it to my birthday.  At my weigh-in last night, it was discovered that I've lost a little more weight and Peep #1 says I can't afford to lose even one more ounce.  But she received some good news today.  There's nothin' definite or anythin' but suffice it to say, there's a glimmer of hope shinin' in.  Things are lookin' up, I do believe.

One of the problems at paw has been gettin' an appropriate medication for my condition.  There's stuff available in the United States which is bein' used quite successfully, too, but a kitty can't get his paws on it up here in Canada.  The Canadian government can be a real stickler 'bout these things, you see. Not fair, really.  Canadian kitties need medicine, too!

This is just one more reason why I, Nerissa the Cat, should be appointed to the Canadian Senate.  Once appointed, I'll make sure that appropriate rules and regulations are kept but that life-saving medicines are available to all.  MOUSES!

#Niss4Senate - Tell the Prime Minister, today!  Seriously.  Tweet him, call him up, write him a letter...  He'll love hearin' from you, for sure.

And speakin' of the Senate.  Lots of Senate-related stuff is currently in the news but don't you worry, my friends.  I, Nerissa the Cat, am watchin' like a hawk and compiling the facts.  I'll have things to report, for sure.  In fact, I'm feelin' a cheese-snackin' induced dream comin' on and I wouldn't be at all surprised to find myself bein' called in by the Royal Canadian Mouseland Police.

And speakin' of cheese, there's more good news!  Now that the peep understands exactly how my medicine works, I might be able to indulge in a little snackin'.  Not too much but just a little somethin' to make my life worth livin', you know?  Just a little nibble or two.

There's just one thing more I feel the need to say.  A little reminder of sorts.  Bear with me, if you will.

You ever notice how some peeps wanna be right 'bout stuff at all costs?  That's right, they don't care what the cost as long as they're right.  Basically, they're investin' in the wrong stuff and investin' in the wrong stuff almost always proves to be costly.  MOUSES!

Sometimes, peeps come up with a plan.  The plan makes sense and the plan's goal, off on the horizon, is a good goal, for sure.  So those peeps set their eyes on that goal, forging ahead.

But then somewhere along the way, they encounter an obstacle or two and that path that was paved with only the best of intentions, becomes a little rocky.  The path slowly bends and a corner is cut here and another is cut there.  The goal is still off on the horizon and still very much in view and yet somehow, its importance becomes secondary to somethin' else.  The peeps on the path start payin' more attention to the stones paving the path than the destination, itself.  And that path becomes their goal.

And because of all the hard work put into pavin' the path, the peeps wanna prove that pavin' it was worthwhile.  They've invested their hearts and souls into that path and its success becomes the most important thing of all and eventually, there's nothin' else in sight.

To admit that the path isn't leadin' them to where they originally wanted to be led, would be the same as admittin' defeat.

So it's important to remember that sometimes things just don't work out as planned.  Even with the best of intentions, things can fail.  And when somethin' fails, there's nothin' wrong with admitting that failure.  In fact, admitting such things is one of the most courageous things one can ever do.

There's importance in bein' earnest.  In bein' truthful to oneself and everyone else.  Being right at all costs is not bein' earnest at all.

In other words, when things don't work out as planned, ADMIT IT.  Admit it to yourself and everyone else. Accept responsibility for whatever happened and start repairing any damages so that once more, your original goal can come back into sight.

Of course, this advice applies mainly to peeps and not to us cats 'cause cats are almost always right 'cause you know, we're cats.  It's in our nature to be right, you see.  And on the rare occasion when we might happen to be wrong, we stop whatever we're doin' and start washin' our tails, remindin' the world that we didn't go adrift at all but rather, simply changed our minds, mid-stream.  Once again I must say, MOUSES!

                    **********************************************************

Please remember that throughout the month of April, a portion of all sales of the book Rescued: The Stories of 12 Cats, Through Their Eyes will go to the wonderful Anjellicle Cats Rescue of New York, helpin' them to help save cats' lives.  You can purchase your very own copy at your local book store or on Amazon by clicking right HERE.  You'll wanna stock up for holiday gift-giving, for sure.  PURRS.

aim, shoot and score

He aims.  He shoots!  HE SCORES!!!  AND THE FANS ROAR.  They start chantin' my name. Nissy. Nissy.  Nissy. Their cheers can be heard around the world. Can you hear 'em yet?  Are you cheerin', too?  Yoo-hoo! YOO-HOO!!!

Then suddenly I feel someone pawin' at me. Someone is shakin' my shoulders.  "Nissy, wake up.  The peep is servin' breakkies.  You're gonna be late."

Awww...  MOUSES!

Well it was a good dream while it lasted, for sure.

But not entirely a dream 'cause I really am in the midst of inventin' a new sport.  I'm gonna call is pawball, I think.  Should be quite popular with cats and their peeps.

I've never actually been to a sportin' arena, bein' a cat and all, but I've seen a few games on the TV. Not Bird TV but rather, the television that is in the family room in that ol' box.  The kind of TV that the peeps watch.

Actually, my peeps never watch sports on television.  They're more into mysteries and things like Downton Abbey which, I must admit, have been providin' excellent tummy rub and chin scrtichin' sessions as of late.  That show Ascension has been good, too.

I, of course, bein' a very intellectually-minded kitty, enjoy watchin' the news.  I especially like the political stuff 'cause it's very important for me to keep up-to-date with the goings-on in Ottawa as I intend to become Canada's first feline Senator and I intend to do that very soon.  Plus, their daily shenanigans provide excellent fodder for my blog.

But even though I am diligent in my political news watchin' endeavours, I have occasionally come across a sportin' event or two.

I still remember that time when I accidentally watched a Senator's hockey game thinkin' they were actual political cats appointed to the Senate.  Little did I know that they were neither politicians nor cats.  Apparently, there is a hockey team called the Senators.  Who knew?

But that got me to thinkin'.  Why not have a sport just for cats?  One that Canada's first feline Senator - as in the political kind - could play, too.  So I put my ol' thinkin' cap on and started thinkin'.

It's not actually a real cap.  My thinkin' cap, I mean.  Of course, once I have my new sport up and runnin', we'll have to have some caps, for sure.  Somethin' like a baseball cap except they'll be called pawball caps 'cause we're playin' pawball and, of course, they will be designed for cats. Gotta have openings for the ears, you see.  MOUSES!


Anywho...  Like I said earlier, I'm gonna call my new sport pawball.  It's a great name, for sure.

Pawball will be played with soft balls made out of yarn and whatnot.  I briefly toyed with the idea of filling 'em with nip but quickly realised that that could have disastrous consequences.  You know what happens when a bunch of cats all start playin' with one ball filled with the nip?  Believe-you-me, you don't wanna know.  When it comes to nip balls, each and every cat must have one of their own.

Nip ball ownership is important 'cause of the slobber.

In pawball, you don't wanna have the ball in play all covered with slobber.  Slows down the movement of the game.  Plus, while it's one thing to bat around a nip ball covered in your own slobber, it's an entirely different thing to have to deal with some other cat's slobber.  Pretty icky.  A cat might hesitate to thwack the pawball on account of an opposing team member's slobber.  In fact, an opposing team member might slobber all over that pawball just to cause such hesitation.

I can see the headline now...  SLOBBERGATE! - Home team refuses to thwack slobber-covered pawball on account of ick factor.

And it's not just be the slobber one has to worry 'bout, either.  Cats have been known to hog the nip. I've seen it happen, first paw.  A cat gets hold of a nip mouse or biff bag and the next thing you know, that cat isn't givin' said nip mouse or biff bag back.  Mouses, I haven't just seen it.  I've been it!  Been that nip-hoggin' cat, I mean.  I'm a little addicted to the nip, you see.  MOUSES!

You can't have a pawball game grind to a halt 'cause one of the players has got hold of the ball in play and refuses to let it go.  Refuses to let anyone else play.  Just wants to hunker down in the field and enjoy a little of nip before takin' a nap, usin' the pawball as a pillow.  No, that wouldn't work at all.

And the headline would read...  NAPGATE! - Game grinds to halt when Nerissa the Cat naps through second quarter in center field.

Then, of course, there's the whole drug use in professional sports thing.  Not that nip is an illegal substance or anythin'.  I mean, it's just an herb, really.  And it's certainly not performance enhancin'. In fact, it's more like the opposite.  Give a kitty a little nip and oh sure, you might have some zoomin' around the field but that zoomin' will be fairly short-lived.  Nip-induced zoomies are almost always followed by naps or snacks and I speak from personal experience 'bout this.

Can you imagine what would happen if both teams suddenly stopped playin', mid-game, and headed into the stands lookin' for snacks?

Every paper would say...  SNACKGATE! - Game delayed due to players searching for snacks.

No, I quickly realised that pawballs will need to be filled with regular stuffin' instead of the nip. Little knitted balls made of yarn and stuffin'.  Regular stuffin'.  No nip involved.

There will need to be various variations of pawball, for sure.  Indoor, outdoor and street.  And I'll need to pay careful attention to the acceptable surfaces upon which the game is to be played. There are so many choices!  Tile, wood, carpet, grass, litter, etc...  Different playin' surfaces will alter the play.  For example, the coefficient of friction on a carpeted surface...  Hmmm...  Best just to say that a pawball won't be quite so speedy when rollin' over a carpet as a slippery floor but on the other paw, the carpet will provide good grippin' material for the players.  Not so easy to grip on tile.  I can attest to that.  Race 'round a corner on a slippery floor and you might not stop 'til you hit a wall.

Walls!  Of course.  We must have walls in pawball like they do in hockey. You know, so that there's somethin' to stop the players if they can't stop themselves.  I've heard 'bout Peep #1 ice skatin' and from what I understand, the walls are a vital part of her ability to stop.  MOUSES!

I'm thinkin' I have a bit more work to do with this little invention of mine.  Got the actual pawball in mind but I need to think more 'bout the playin' surfaces. Also, I'll need to make up some rules, I think.  Figure out how cats can score and whatnot.

And when I say score, I mean score points,  I'm not talkin' about scorin' nip.

If I were, the headline would be...  NIPGATE! - Home team drops out of playoffs when caught scoring nip on street outside sporting venue.  Leads to house arrest.  Nerissa the Cat is quoted as sayin'. "That sure was some good nip."

MOUSES!

the nissmobile!

Nerissa the Cat reportin' from Nova Scotia.  Let me remind you that you heard it here first, folks.... WE HAVE SNOW.

What's that Peepers? You say I can't tell my readers they heard 'bout Winter Storm Juno here first, 'cause Winter Storm Juno is pretty much over? But it's still snowin' out outside.  I can see the white stuff comin' down, right now.  All the schools are cancelled, too. Surely...  Really? Awww...  MOUSES!

FINE.  So peeps didn't hear 'bout Winter Storm Juno from me first and they probably all already knew that we had snow but I'm bettin' no one knew 'bout the other stuff I'm bloggin' about today and as luck would have it, it's storm-related, for sure.

First of all, let me tell you 'bout the new doggy catwalk.

All mornin' long, I've been watchin' the dogs of the neighbourhood struttin' their stuff down the catwalk, also known as the street in front of my house.  These doggies have been sportin' all sorts of winter garb.  The 2015 collection includes everythin' from dressy jackets for a night on the town to more practical, cold-weather apparel such as the lovely fleece-lined grey jacket worn by the friendly neighbourhood mutt.  A jacket that keeps the cold out while remainin' stylish is a fashion-must, this season, for sure.

Unfortunately, every fashion show has a gate-crasher or two.  A husky was seen streakin' down the catwalk in his birthday suit.  That's right, folks, we had a naked Husky wearin' nothin' but the fur God gave him.

Thankfully the peeps accompanying him were not naked, too.  MOUSES!

Also spotted on the road, this week, was a snowmobile.  That's right foks, yesterday afternoon I was witness to a snowmobile racin' down the road in front of my house.  The very same road that is also doublin' as a catwalk for the first doggy fashion show of the season.

Truth be told, I'm not sure if snowmobiles are allowed on the road.  I don't even know if they're licenced but there it was, drivin' in all its glory.  That snowmobile sped down my street not once but twice, yesterday afternoon.  Not sure what the hurry was.  Everythin' was closed.  Nothin' was goin' on.  After all, we were in the middle of blizzard 'round here.  MOUSES!

But seein' that ol' snowmobile gave me an idea...

The night before, I  had fallen asleep listenin' to the news.  I know, not a good idea for me to do.  Previously, doin' stuff like that has led to cheese-snackin' induced dreams involvin' the Royal Canadian Mouseland Police but when I fell asleep Monday night, I had not snacked upon any cheese.  There were no dreams of sugarplum mice for me.

Anywho...  as I drifted off to sleep, I was listenin' to a reporter drivin' around New York City, talkin' about how no one was allowed to be drivin' around the city.  You know, the traffic ban and whatnot.  I was a little confused on account of his drivin' around in a car durin' the traffic ban and... well..  bein' traffic.  I assumed some sort of exception had been made for the press or somethin'.  I was hopin' there had been an exception made for the press 'cause there's nothin' worse than endin' up on the wrong side of the news when you're supposed to be reportin' it.  Kind of embarrassin' to be pulled over for bein' in violation of a traffic ban while you're busy reporting 'bout there bein' a traffic ban in the first place, if you know what I mean.  MOUSES!

So the reporter drivin' around durin' the traffic ban was still weighin' heavily on my mind.  Weighin' heavily on my mind like a seventeen pound marmie brother lyin' on my favourite nip mouse and refusin' to get off it.  And then I saw the snowmobile and that's when I thought...

That's when I thought, I need one of those!

And always bein' full of good ideas, I had another thought.

And I'll call it...  the Nissmobile!!!

The Nissmobile will allow me to get out and about with my fellow cats, reportin' on the news of the day.  With a Nissmobile, I can be right there, askin' the man on the street for his opinions and thoughts on important stuff like science, education, politics and the availability and access of nip to all cats, everywhere.

And when there's a storm like this Juno character, with my Nissmobile, a little inclement weather won't stop me.  I'll be out there with all the other reporters, zippin' about the streets.  Zippin' about durin' the traffic bans while in my Nissmobile!

Once the snow and ice are all gone, I'll get the peep to attach some wheels to the Nissmobile, allowin' for four-season travel.

And the Nissmobile sure will come in handy durin' my publicity campaign to get the Prime Minister of Canada to appoint me to the Senate.  I, Nerissa the Cat, wanna be Canada's first feline Senator, for sure.

I'll be able to hop into my Nissmobile and travel to all four corners of Nova Scotia, askin' the peeps I wanna represent, what is most important to them because I, Nerissa the Cat, know and understand the importance of the Senate and the duties of Senators.  I understand that Canadian Senators represent the people from the provinces in which they reside and not the politicians who appoint them.  Oh my gosh, I even know in which province I reside.  Believe it or not, not every Senator has.  MOUSES!

So if you happen to be in Nova Scotia this year and you see a cute little sterling silver - some say platinum - tabby cat zippin' about on the streets, you can rest assured that that tabby cat is me.  Me, Nerissa the Cat. Nerissa the Cat in my Nissmobile.

Whether I'm reportin' the news or spreadin' the word 'bout my campaign for a Senate appointment, there will be one thing you can count on above all else.  I, Nerissa the Cat will be the cutest reporter/politician on the street. After all, only the cutest will be allowed to drive the Nissmobile,

And you'll hear me hollarin' far and wide...  #Niss4Senate - Tell the PM, today.  Please?

put 'em to better use

Christmas and New Year's are long gone, now.  Even Little Christmas has passed. The holidays are all over for another year and it's time to get back to business, for sure.

This is a new year and it's bringin' a lot of changes to my house.  There are so many things I need to do.

For starters, I need to get workin' on my campaign for the Senate.  I have some super great ideas to implement.  I have some of the best ideas the Senate has heard of or seen in a very long time. Now all I've gotta do is get myself appointed.  MOUSES!

And speakin' of the Senate and campaigns and whatnot, I should just clarify somethin'.  Here in Canada, Senators are not elected.  They're appointed by the Prime Minister.  Well technically, they're appointed by the Governor General after bein' recommended by the Prime Minister. Recommended, summoned, whatever...  So I don't need to win an election.  I just need to be recommended.

But I still need to mount a campaign of sorts.  Not a campaign for an election but rather, a campaign to help the Prime Minister see the wisdom of appointin' me, Nerissa the Cat, to the Canadian Senate.  MOUSES!

If you wanna help with this here campaign of mine, please feel free to contact the Prime Minister of Canada and let him know what you think.  Feel free to tweet him, give him a call or even send him a letter.

If you're tweetin', please remember to include the hashtag #Niss4Senate.   I appear to be the only one usin' this hashtag at the mo.  I'm pretty sure it will be more effective once it starts trendin' but I kinda think that in order for it to trend, there has to be more than just me usin' it.  You know?

And if you should choose to go the snail mail route, I just wanna say that this form of mail doesn't really travel at the speed of snails.  It's more like that of a turtle, I should think.  Turtles, tortoises, whatever...  Does anyone really know the difference?  Does anyone really care?  Probably the turtles and tortoises do but what about the rabbits and hares?

I'm bettin' that you're all wonderin' what ideas I intend to bring forth once appointed to the Senate.  I have a list of stuff.  A to-do list, of sorts.  Gonna reveal those things in future posts right here on Nerissa's Life.  As loyal readers of my blog, you'll be the very first to know.  Pretty exciting, for sure.

Are you wonderin' what other things I have in store for the new year?  Well...

Well I'm gonna start crackin' the whip with the peeps.  They've been slackin'.  Slackin' BIG time. Time for me to put a stop to their ridiculous behavior.

Now that the hustle and bustle of the holidays is over, the peeps need to start puttin' their paws to better use.  Better use than what they were doin' with their paws before the holidays, for sure.


There was a lot of baking going on at my house in the weeks prior to Christmas and do you know what? Not a single one of those recipes used nip as a main ingredient.  Not a single one.  MOUSES!

That kind of behaviour has gotta stop.  If Peep #1 wants to bake, at least half of the recipes she uses should include nip.  I'm thinkin' that's more than fair. I mean, we cats outnumber the peeps in this house so technically, more than half the recipes should include the nip but I'm tryin' to go easy on the peep... FOR NOW.  We can always renegotiate nip percentages, next year.

Secondly, there has been way too much knittin' goin' on.  That's gonna have to stop.

To be fair, much of the knittin' prior to the holidays was elfin' work being done for Santa and those knitted biff bags and mice were stuffed with nip so, of course, knittin' of that sort may continue as much as desired.  Any kind of knittin' that includes nip is a-okay in my books.

But scarves?  And sweaters?  I don't wear scarves nor do I wear sweaters so stuff like that is just a waste of good yarn.  Plus, Peep #1 has a tendency to knit scarves usin' lacy patterns.  Oh sure, they look pretty and whatnot but do you know that you get when you try to stuff a lacy scarf with nip?  You get an empty scarf and a whole bunch of nip, lyin' on the floor.  I can attest to that from my own personal experience.

And if you try to play with said lacy scarf, you get scolded.  I can attest to that, too.  Yup, I can attest to that, for sure.  MOUSES!

Now if the peep starts knittin' comfy blankies, we can talk.  Especially if those blankies are stuffed with the nip.

Of  course, my sister Mason made a New Year's Resolution to learn how to knit, this year.  Well technically, I made that resolution for her but it's still a resolution and it's still for the new year so it still counts.  Mason can knit all she likes.  I have faith that she will put her newly acquired knittin' skills to good use.  I have faith that whatever Mason knits will include the nip.  MOUSES!

The peep needs to start puttin' her paws to better use.  I'm thinkin'...  chin tickles, behind-the-ear scritches and tummy rubs.  And that's just for starters.

With the new year we have new episodes of Murdoch Mysteries.  And Downton Abbey is back on PBS.  Gotta love shows like those 'cause they provide quality cuddlin' time with the peeps.  Nothin' like spendin' a few hours with your peeps while they tickle your chin and rub your tummy.  That's gotta be one of the best ways to spend an evenin', for sure.

I suppose I shouldn't monopolise all the peep's time, though.  Peep #1 does need to get back to workin' on her own writing.  She'll never be as prolific a writer as I but still, she needs at least a few hours of computer time a week if she's ever gonna finish that book of hers.

And she needs to take the Christmas tree down, too.  Like I said, the holidays are over now for the year but the Christmas tree in the livin' room is still up.  We cats have been tryin' to help by knockin' down some of the breakable rollables every now and then. Every day we knock down a few more but the peep, bein' a peep, keeps putting 'em back up.  What a peep.

The Christmas tree went up late last year so I'm bettin' it will come down late, too.  I wonder if the peep will get it down by Valentine's Day.  Valentine's Day, I can handle but it had better be down by Easter.  Easter is just way too late.  MOUSES!

psst... CAT!

"Don't mind if I do!" I said, swipin' the piece of cheese out of Rushton's paw and gobbling it down, myself. "You're lactose intolerant, remember? Cheese contains lactose so you're not supposed to eat it.  I'm helpin' you out by takin' that cheese and before you say anything about my bein' lactose intolerant, too, remember that I'm not as intolerant as you."

I watched as my brother stomped away, angrily muttering about degrees of intolerance.  Then it was off' to the family room for me.  Time for a little nip mouse indulgence before bedtime.

"Psst....  CAT!"

"MOUSES!"  Yeah, seriously, right before my eyes there stood a mouse.  There was a mouse in my house.  He was looking at me in a weird kind of way but since he was a mouse, I assumed it to be his natural look.  Rollin' over, I went back to sleep.

"Psst...  CAT!" and I felt someone tugging on my whiskers.  "Wake up, cat.  Your assistance is required."

I opened one eye.  The mouse was still there.  I opened the other eye.  Yup, that mouse wasn't goin' anywhere.  Rising from my favourite napping spot de jour, I let out a big yawn.  The mouse cowered in fear.  Guess he thought I was gonna eat him or somethin'.  Instead, I just asked him what he wanted.

"Do you remember me, Sir?  Nerissa the Cat, Sir?  M1 is my name.  We met last year during all that nastiness regarding the great cheese conspiracy and those issues with the Canadian Cheese Consortium."

I nodded in recollection.  "Yup, I remember that.  You ever deal with that rat, The Big Cheese?"

"He's not a rat," answered M1.  He's really just a mouse like the rest of us although if you were to ask him, he'd probably disagree.  He does think rather highly of himself.  Thinks he's better than the rest of us, you see.  Doesn't realise he's just a mouse like you and me.  Well, like me," and I detected a slight flush of pink spreading across M1's cheeks.

M1 sat down and pulled out a ledger.  Pawing it over, I immediately saw the problem.  "MOUSES! That rat - I mean, mouse - is up to no good.  What's he playin' at now?" I questioned, although truth be told, I already had my answer.  "Take me to The Big Cheese, M1.  He's got some explainin' to do, for sure."

Just as before, M1 led me into my kitchen where space and time had morphed in weird and wonderful ways and the room that had once been the kitchen had turned into a great hall filled with tiny little mouse-sized chairs.  In each chair sat a mouse.  No, wait a minute.  Some of the chairs were empty.  I gazed around the room, counting the empty chairs.  Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen... "MOUSES!" I cried.  "It's true, you are missin' sixteen mice.  Now I just wanna point out that I had nothin' to do with that.  I filled up on cheese before visitin'."

M1 tapped me on the paw.  "Don't worry, Nerissa.  No one is blaming you.  We all know what really happened to the missing mice."

And I knew as well for I had carefully read the ledger M1 had previously shown me.  The missing mice had simply disappeared, one after another.  Some had retired.  Others, resigned.  They all had their reasons for leaving but after leaving, in order to keep the predestined balance of the Consortium...  well...  balanced, those mice should have been replaced.  Apparently, the great hall was experiencing a mouse shortage.  Who knew that was even possible?

I padded softly through the chamber, stopping where I could easily be seen by all.  I flicked my tail and accidentally took out one of the front row seats.  "Sorry 'bout that.  Room's a little small for a cat, if you know what I mean."  A number of mice snickered, nervously.

"Now bring me The Big Cheese," I demanded.

Several mice appeared before me, dragging a gigantic wheel of Gouda.

"Not that big cheese," I cried. "Although...  hold on a minute there.  I'll just have a little bite..."

The mice scattered.

"Not a bite of you.  Mouses you mice are a sensitive lot.  I'll just take a little bite of that cheese."

It was delicious.

Then before me appeared the mouse with the steely blue eyes and exceptionally long tail, otherwise known as The Big Cheese.  He narrowed his eyes and asked, "What do you want, cat?"

"That's Nerissa the Cat, to you, buddy.  We have to have a little talk about the sixteen missing members of the Cheese Consortium.  My question is, why are they missing?"

"You're asking me about missing mice?  Me?  A little ol' mouse?  REALLY?  Shouldn't you be asking your fellow cats where all the mice have gone?"

I lay down before The Big Cheese, striking my very best sphinx pose.  "Cats had nothing to do with those missing mice, my friend.  Don't try playin' cat and mouse games with me.  That's a game that never ends well for the mouse."  I let out a low growl and The Big Cheese looked furtively about the room, looking for somewhere to hide.  I grabbed him by the tail and held on.  The stink of Gorgonzola permeated the air about him.  He seriously needed to start eatin' more Cheddar.

"Now listen up, buddy.  I've seen the ledgers belonging to the Canadian Cheese Consortium and I know what you're doing.  Several of the cheese divisions are lackin' in representation.  I thought you liked appointing members to the Consortium.  Even goin' so far as to appoint mice who weren't even qualified to represent the divisions they were supposed to be representin'."

"That's true, I did.  But that was then and this is now.  Unfortunately, some of the mice I appointed caused some trouble.  So I thought to myself, why appoint any at all?  Things in the Consortium are going very nicely for me.  They're running quite smoothly.  Gorgonzola production is up.  Means of transporting the Gorgonzola are being worked out.  No one here has even tried to stop me.  The Consortium is working exactly as it should."

I narrowed my eyes and stared directly at the little mouse known as The Big Cheese.  "We talked about this the last time I visited, remember?  The Consortium doesn't serve you.  It serves the mice of Mouseland.  All of them.  Not just the Gorgonzola lovers.  Without equal representation, the Consortium cannot possibly work as it should.  It cannot and is not.  Somethin' needs to be done about that."

The Big Cheese narrowed his eyes and peered right at me.  Pompously puffing out his chest he said, "The Consortium is working exactly as I wish for it to work."

That's when I realised that what M1 had said earlier was true.  The Big Cheese had begun to think far too highly of himself.  He was nothin' more than a mouse and yet, for some reason, he thought he was the chosen one or somethin'.  Like he was better than the rest of the mice.  Clearly, The Big Cheese had gone squirrely.  I watched as he stuffed some more Gorgonzola into his mouth.

"Listen up, mouse," I began.  "I'm puttin' you on notice.  That's right, I, Nerissa the Cat, am puttin' you, The Big Cheese, on notice.  Either you make sure that all four divisions of the Canadian Cheese Consortium are represented equally or I will make it happen, myself."

"What are you going to do, cat?  Take over the Consortium?" and The Big Cheese grinned.

"It's a thought," I replied.  Our eyes met.  "If cats were to take over the Canadian Cheese Consortium..."

The Big Cheese tried to step back but I still had hold of his tail.  "Cats can't..." he sputtered.

"Cats can't what, Mr. Cheese?"

The Big Cheese cowered.

"Like I said, either you make sure all four divisions of the Consortium are fairly and equally represented or I will make it happen, for you."  Letting go of his tail, I turned to leave but not before adding, "And do somethin' about your breath, would you?  You're stinkin' of cheese.  MOUSES!"

"Mice," I heard, whispered in unison as those darned grammar mice of the great hall explained, "The plural of mouse, is mice."

MOUSES!

censored!

Hey there, you ol' Nosey-Neighbour-Cat, I'll shake your paw but I've only got one thing to say to you and that's, GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!

Okay, that never actually happened.

Now don't get me wrong, Nosey-Neighbour-Cat was in my house.  Oh yeah, he was in my house, for sure.  He was hangin' around an awful lot and snuck in when none of us cats were lookin'.  Then he went out last Wednesday night and we cats all breathed a collective sigh of relief 'cause to tell you the truth, none of us actually like him.  But he doesn't like us, either, so it all evens out, I suppose.

Then late Friday afternoon, Peep #1 went into the garage lookin' for a plant pot.  She found a pot, all right, but do you know what else she found?  She found that darned cat!  He must have been in there for over a day 'cause the last time the peep had had the garage door open was on Thursday mornin' when she was puttin' the garbage out for collection.  She hadn't realised he had snuck in when she wasn't lookin'.  Oh yeah, he's a super sneaky character is that Nosey-Neighbour-Cat. Super sneaky, for sure.  MOUSES!

Anywho...  Peep #1 felt sorry for Nosey-Neighbour-Cat on account of his havin' been locked in our garage for so long and she felt kind of guilty, too, as she had been the one to accidentally lock him in there.  So when he asked to come back into my house, she went and opened the window.  Again I must say...  MOUSES!

Well that happened, Friday.  Today is Sunday and today is the day he finally left.  Got my paws crossed that he'll go to his own house, eat his own food, breath his own air, use his own litter box and pester his own peeps.  Got my paws crossed but truth be told, it might just be wishful thinkin' on my part.  Once more I must say...  MOUSES!

Now you're all probably wonderin' why I didn't say somethin' to that ol' Nosey-Neighbour-Cat before this mornin'.  You're probably wonderin' why I didn't tell him to get the heck back to his own house and stay there.  Believe you me, I thought about it.  I thought about it long and hard but then I thought better of it and held my tongue.

You ever hear of the expression, the cat's got your tongue?  Well, I'm a cat and I was holdin' my own tongue on account of knowin' that I shouldn't just blurt out whatever was on my mind without thinkin' about the ramifications of blurtin' without thinkin' because I'm a better cat than that. MOUSES!

Durin' the last day and a half, the rest of my fur-fam had been givin' Nosey-Neighbour-Cat a pretty hard time.  There wasn't any fighting.  No fur flew or anythin' like that.  But my sibs were actin' pretty rudely towards him, for sure.  They ostracised him.

No, they didn't turn him into an ostrich.  They didn't even call him an ostrich.  They didn't really call him any names at all.  They just ignored him.

That's right, my fur-fam ignored Nosey-Neighbour-Cat and they did so really rudely.  It's definitely possibly to ignore someone politely but that is not what my fur-fam did.  Not what they did at all.

My fur-fam went out of their way to let Nosey-Neighbour-Cat know he was bein' ignored.  He must have felt so unwelcome, which, to be honest, he was but still...  I'm thinkin' his feelings must have been smartin', for sure.  Yeah, it was pretty rude.

Nosey-Neighbour-Cat camped out on top of the kitchen cupboards and the refrigerator for a whole day and a half, only coming down for meals and group photos.  Oh yeah, there were no group photos taken.  MOUSES!

Okay, he came down to eat and use the litter box.  The peeps didn't actually feed him 'cause they were seriously hopin' he'd get the hint and head on back to his own house with his own peeps but Nosey-Neighbour-Cat has a way of helpin' himself.  He even tore into an unopened bag of kibble.  Could you believe it?  He didn't like what the peep had left in our snackin' bowls and wanted somethin' else so he tore right into the bag and, as I said, helped himself.  He also ate soft food from our plates and, I believe, knocked a tin off the counter, at one point, to get at the fanciest of the feasts.  Again I must say...  MOUSES!

The rest of my fur-fam were behavin' like cliquey teenage girls in a high school cafeteria.  You know, the ones featured on so many movies 'bout high school cafeterias.  They were sittin' everywhere but where Nosey-Neighbour-Cat was sittin'.  Makin' him feel like he didn't have a friend in the world.  Of course, at my house, he really doesn't have any friends but he always had his own house to go to.  Over there, they love him.  Why he wants to hang out with us is one of the great unanswered mysteries of the century.  Well that and who let the dogs out but I've pretty much given up on the findin' the answer 'bout those dogs.  Once more I must say...  MOUSES!

I seriously considered join' my fur-fam in the ostracisation of Nosey-Neighbour-Cat.  I thought, everyone else is doin' it so why shouldn't I join in on the fun, too?

Then I thought better.  Partly 'cause even those it might be fun for the ostracisers, for the ostracisee, fun is definitely missin' from the equation.

But my main reason for not participatin' in the ostracisation of the most nosey cat in the neighbourhood, EVER, was that I realised that I was a better cat than that.  I realised that this was my moment to shine.  To rise above the general fray and be a shining example for mancats, everywhere.

Also, it occurred to me that this whole ostracising business could very well be some sort of test bein' given to me by the universe.  A test to see if I, Nerissa the Cat, really am qualified to be appointed to the Senate of Canada.  To see if I, Nerissa the Cat, should be representin' the Province of Nova Scotia in the Canadian Senate.

Representin' Nova Scotia in the Senate would be a very prestigious honour.  Although a political position, there is some diplomacy involved.  And politeness, too.  Nothin' wrong with a little politeness.  Politeness can go a long way, for sure.

You ever hear that ol' expression 'bout catchin' more flies with honey than vinegar?  Well, it's true. Vinegar won't catch you a fly at all.  Not that anyone actually wants to go out catchin' flies - I'm more inclined to swat them away, myself - but I'm sure you get my point.

It occurred to me that when I'm appointed to the Senate of Canada, I'm gonna have to be somewhat diplomatic 'bout certain things.  It also occurred to me that as practise makes perfect, I should start practicin' the art of diplomacy on Nosey-Neighbour-Cat.  No one ever said this bein' a Senator stuff was gonna be easy!

So I refrained from the ostracisation of that nosey neighbourin' cat of mine.  At one point, I even extended him a paw when he passed me while jumpin' down from the cupboards.

Several times over the last day and half, I was tempted to give him a piece of my mind.  To tell him to, you know, get out of my house and go back from whence he came.  But instead of just blurtin' out whatever I was thinkin', I censored myself.  That's right, I was censored!  I held my tongue like a real mancat does and instead, offered up a smile with merely the suggestion of the fact that his peeps were probably missin' him and he might wanna go home to let 'em know he was okay.

I kept thinkin' of the honey and vinegar thing and remindin' myself that blurtin' without thinkin' usually comes back to bite you in tail when you're least expectin' it.  I also reminded myself that bites to tail are extremely painful, at best.

Now today, my brothers and sisters are snickerin' behind my back 'cause I wouldn't join in on their fun but I pointed out to them that firstly, by bein' polite, I managed to get that ol' Nosey-Neighbour-Cat to leave our house, this mornin'.  Their tactics were gettin' them nowhere.  They were gettin' Nosey-Neighbour-Cat to go nowhere, too.

I also reminded my fur-fam that I need to look out for my own political career. I really want that appointment to the Senate and if I'm gonna get it, I've gotta show Canadians that I can be a responsible politician and behave with the necessary decorum.  I need to be polite.  I need to be diplomatic.  I need to behave with maturity.  I need to behave, appropriately.   I mean...  It's not like I wanna run for Prime Minister or anythin'.  MOUSES!

Nerissa the Cat Day!

Do you know what day tomorrow is? Tomorrow is Nerissa the Cat Day. It's true.  I have my very own holiday now.

What's that Peepers? Nerissa the Cat Day is not an official holiday? What do you mean it's not an official holiday?  I have it marked on the calendar and everythin'. MOUSES!

Well let me tell you somethin', when I'm appointed to the Canadian Senate, I'm gonna have to do somethin' about that.  In the meantime, we'll just assume it's a done deal, okay? Okay.  Glad we have that settled.

Yup, it's a long weekend here in Canada.  At least it's a long weekend for most of Canada and definitely here in Nova Scotia unless, of course, you happen to work in a store that's not closin' for the day.  Kind of confusin', to be honest.

Anywho...  The first Monday of August is a holiday, givin' us a long weekend.  In fact, some people refer to it as the 'August Long Weekend.'  Kind of a silly name for a holiday, if you ask me, especially since it's not always in August.  Oh sure, the actual holiday Monday is in August but sometimes the weekend isn't.  For this year it is, but in years when the first Monday of August falls on the first or second of the month, the August Long Weekend seeps into July.  Seeps into July like a leaky pipe in a floodin' basement.  Are you beginnin' to see the problem at paw?  How can you call it the August Long Weekend when one or two thirds of it are sometimes in an entirely different month?  MOUSES!

In places where peeps, havin' recognised this all-too-obvious calendar seepage issue, don't want to call the holiday the August Long Weekend but don't have anythin' better to call it, it's known as the Civic Holiday.  Kind of just a general, run of the mill name, I guess.  Somethin' to call it for lack of a better somethin', I suppose.  Kind of blah, bleh and borin', in this cat's opinion, but maybe that's just me.

As the holiday is supposed to be about celebratin' the birthdays of the provinces, Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island call it Natal Day.  Other provinces have given it names such as Saskatchewan Day, British Columbia Day and New Brunswick Day.  You know...  names celebratin' birthdays and provinces and whatnot.

But truth be told, places call this holiday Monday all sorts of things. Now here is where it gets really confusin'.  In parts of Ontario, it's called the Civic Holiday but in Toronto, they call it Simcoe Day.  In Ottawa, Colonel By Day.  In Burlington, Joseph Brant Day.

Benjamin Vaughan Day, George Hamilton Day, James Cockburn Day, Founder's Day, Peter Robinson Day... The list goes on and on and yes, on. MOUSES!

I read somewhere that cities can call the day whatever they like.  What about towns?  What about villages?  How 'bout places so small they're really just dots on a map?

I, myself, live in one such dot on a map.  It's so small, we don't even have our own postal code. MOUSES!

Well let me tell you somethin', when I'm appointed to the Canadian Senate, I'm gonna have to do somethin' about that.

But back to the map.  It appears to me that cities are callin' the holiday Monday all sorts of things, generally namin' it after peeps who have made some sort of historical contribution to their cities which really, are just bigger dots on the very same map.  The size of the dots really shouldn't matter. If big dots get to name the day, little dots should get to, too.  You know?  Of course you do.

And why should those names be limited to peeps?  I mean...  WHY?  That's speciest, that is. It's speciest, for sure.

I think it's fair to say that I'm a fairly well-known cat livin' here in Nova Scotia.  Of course, there are other popular cats.  Stan...  Earl Grey...  The cats at Mickey's Musings...  All, very well known. Perhaps even better known than I.

But here in the valley, I don't know of a lot of other bloggin' kitties.  Actually, I don't know of any. Plus, there's my work with eggbeater-whisk teleportation-time travelling technology.  My brother Seville and I are leadin' experts in the field.  We're the leadin' experts in the whole wide world.  And then there's my possible - if not probable - Senate appointment.  Bein' the first feline Canadian Senator will be a pretty big deal, I should think.

My gosh...  Having taken all of this into account, can you think of a better name for tomorrow?  I doubt it.  Nerissa the Cat Day is the best name ever, for sure.

So anywho...  At my house, the calendars all say that tomorrow is Nerissa the Cat Day.  Eventually, such calendars shall spread across this fair province, being found in every kitchen from Yarmouth to Cape Breton Island. And who knows, other provinces may pick up on the name, too.  Bet they will. Bet they won't be able to resist.  After all, could you?

                                        ****************************************
By the way, VOTIN' for the Petties Awards is still goin' on .  You can VOTE once a day, EVERY DAY, from now until August 7th.  Won't you please vote for me?  I'd really appreciate it a lot. purrs

Nerissa for Senate

I've been thinkin' about somethin' for a long time now.  I've been debatin' it back and forth in my mind, considerin' all the implications and whatnot.  I even talked it over with the peep...  briefly. Finally, I put my paw down and said to myself, a cat has gotta do what a cat has gotta do.  I'M GOIN' FOR IT!

There have been so many Canadian kitties enterin' the political world, as of late.  Really, it's a great thing.  I mean, who better to rule than cats and yes, that IS a rhetorical question.  Why shouldn't I, Nerissa the Cat, get in on this act, too?

But runnin' a campaign is a big deal.  There are all those photo shoots and although extremely photogenic - 'cause I'm a cat, I really don't like havin' my picture taken.  I try to avoid it at all costs. This is probably the reason Peep #1 has so many pictures of the back of my head.  MOUSES!

And then there would be interviews and press conferences and the like.  Even debates.  Havin' been born feral, I'm still a little shy when it comes to strangers.  I'm thinkin' that there might be a whole lot of strangers at some of those gatherings.  One or two of those strangers might even be strange! Nope.  Not the thing for me.

Plus, I'd need a campaign manager.  I really doubt that Peep #1 is up to it.  I mean, the woman can't even get a decent picture of my face.  How on earth is she supposed to run a campaign?

So I thought and I thought about it and then I thought some more and it occurred to me that there's more than one way to skin a politician.  Not every politician in Canada in elected.  Some of 'em are appointed.

And that's when I realised...  I COULD BE A SENATOR.

That's right, the Senate of Canada is not elected.  Senators are appointed by the Governor General on the recommendation of the Prime Minister.  No elections required.  All I need is the support of the Prime Minister.

I immediately went on-line to see if I had the necessary qualifications.  Turns out, I do.  I have qualifications in spades.  Not the diggin' kind of spades - although I am a cat and cats do like to dig - but rather, the qualifications kind.

In order to be appointed to the Senate, one is supposed to be a Canadian citizen.  At least I think that was what all that gobbledygook and mumbo-jumbo meant.  I don't think one has to have actually been born in Canada which is good 'cause although I WAS BORN IN CANADA, I don't have a birth certificate provin' it.  You know, 'cause I was born feral in a neighbours' woodpile and whatnot. MOUSES!

One must also be thirty years of age.  Hmmm...  Well, I'm only eleven but in cat years, I'm far older than that.  So if we go with the cat years, I qualify.  Plus, due to my lack of a birth certificate, who's gonna know any better?

The third qualification is that one must own property.  Done.  I own three condos.  They may be kitty condos but they're condos, nonetheless.  Also, I own a couple of peeps who have a house so ipso facto, I own that, too.

Lastly, in order to be appointed to the Senate, one must live in the province which he or she is supposed to represent.  I'm a Nova Scotian kitty.  I was born in Nova Scotia and have lived here all my life.  Clearly, I would qualify to represent this beautiful province.  Not every Senate appointee has been able to say the same.  MOUSES!

And speakin' of this fair province...  We Nova Scotians are currently underrepresented in the Senate. There are supposed to be ten Nova Scotian Senators but at the moment, there are only eight. That's not fair.  That's not fair at all.  The whole point of Nova Scotia havin' ten senators is so that the smaller provinces have equal representation in Ottawa but if we don't actually have ten Senators, we don't have equal representation, either.  Clearly, the Prime Minister needs to do somethin' about this. He needs to appoint two more Senators.  MOUSES!

And who better to appoint than a cat?  The Senate is supposed to represent the rich diversity of Canada.  So far, all members of the Senate have been peeps.  Not a cat among 'em.  Well that just smacks of speciesism, that does.  Don't you agree?

It did occur to me that perhaps cats were not allowed to be Senators like in the case of when my pal Stan ran for Mayor of HRM and I heard - on CNN, I think - that it was discovered that there was some stupid law on the books sayin' that cats couldn't run for mayor.  MOUSES!  But I dug and I dug and I dug and as deeply as I dug, I couldn't find any reference to cats bein' excluded from Senate nominations.  Nowhere, to my knowledge, does it say that a cat cannot be a Canadian Senator.  Nowhere at all.  And that means that we can.

Generally speaking, cats are perfect for the Senate.  We're highly intelligent and cute.  That's a tough combination for peeps to master.

As you know, lately the Canadian Senate has been rife with scandal.  But no one handles scandal better than a cat.  When scandal occurs, we charm the pants off everyone with our magnetic purrsonalities and if, by chance, that fails...  we pee on 'em.  You can talk to any veterinarian for confirmation on this.  We cats take no guff from the opposition.  MOUSES!

Personally, I believe that the Canadian Senate is supposed to make decisions independently of the House of Commons.  They're not supposed to just go with the flow.  They're supposed to be representing the people of the province they represent.  They're not supposed to be representin' the leader of the political party to which they're affiliated.  That was never their purpose at all.  And although cats aren't necessarily independent, we're certainly very indifferent.  Indifference to those who insist upon goin' with the flow could very well lead to independence.  Don't you agree?

Finally, there's the whole Governor General thing.  Remember that?  Members of the Senate are appointed by the Governor General on the recommendation of the Prime Minister.  But the Governor General is the representative of the Queen.  And you do know what they say about that, right? They say, a CAT can look at a Queen.  Never heard that said about peeps.  Nope.  Not once.  Never at all.  It's almost like cats are SUPPOSED to be Senators.  It's almost like the Senate was made for us.

So what I need now is a recommendation from Prime Minister Stephen Harper.  I need him to recommend me to the Governor General to represent the Province of Nova Scotia in the Senate of Canada.

So hear ye, hear ye!  NERISSA FOR SENATE!  is the cry we all must make. Come on all you kitties out there! Come on peeps!  Come on doggies and bunnies, too.  Let Prime Minister Stephen Harper know that you think that I, Nerissa the Cat, would make a great Senator.  And feel free to tweet him with the hashtag, #Niss4Senate.  I'm sure he'd love to hear from you.  I read somewhere, he likes cats.

gotta stop eatin' cheese

Do I or don't I?  Hmmm...  No.  I shouldn't.   I turned my back to the plate of cheese on the kitchen counter. On the other paw...

Snatchin' a piece of cheese in my mouth, I jumped down from the counter before the peeps discovered I had been up there.

I set the piece of cheese down on the floor.  This was clearly a situation that necessitated a sober, second thought.

As a cat, thievery was not beneath me. No, a little thievery done in moderation was actually quite cat-like.  But the eating of cheese...  That was somethin' else, entirely.  I thought back to the cheese-snackin' induced dream I once had in which I met The Big Cheese himself, not to mention a whole bunch of other mice instructin' me on the plural form of mouse.  MOUSES!  Dare I risk another dream like that?  

Do I?  Don't I?  Hmmm...    Don't I?  Do I?  Well...  it was a very intererestin' dream...

I scarfed down the piece of cheese, washed my face with a paw and trotted back into the family room, settling in for a little nap.

It wasn't long before I sensed a pair of eyes watchin' me.  I opened one eye of my own and saw, starin' back at me, a mouse.  MOUSES!

"Er-hrm...   Nerissa?  Nerissa the Cat, Sir?  Remember me?  We met a few months ago.  M1 is the name," and the mouse extended a paw.  "We're in need of your assistance, once more."

I got up and followed the mouse into that great, red hall just as I had in my dream, once before. "The Great Canadian Cheese Conspiracy not settled, yet?" I asked the mouse.

"Actually, no," admitted little M1.  "The Royal Canadian Mouseland Police are still investigating that but we have another issue at paw.  An even greater one than before.  The very fabric of our society is at risk!"

"MOUSES!" I cried.

As I expected I would, I heard a small voice, echoing within the chamber, "Mice.  The plural of mouse, is mice."  Those darned grammar mice, I thought.

I stared at the many mice before me, looking for the one they called The Big Cheese.  Sure enough, there he was, chowing down on a chunk of Gorgonzola.  The ripe aroma tickled my nose and I sneezed.  Gosh that was stinky stuff.

As in my previous dream with the mice, the details at paw mysteriously and magically appeared in my mind.  I immediately knew of the troubles facing The Big Cheese and the mice working in the great hall.  I sat down, lifted a leg and began to wash my tail-end.

Finished with my washing, I looked around at the mice.  They all stared back at me with the exception of The Big Cheese who was still eating his Gorgonzola.  Finally, he looked up at me with those steely blue eyes.  "It's you," he said.

"Yes, it is I," I replied.  "Causing trouble once more, are we?"

The Big Cheese narrowed his eyes.  "It is not I making the trouble.  It's the mice.  Mice across the the land are complaining.  I keep telling them what they think but they're not listening.  Instead, they're complaining," he explained.

"Umm....  yeah....  'bout that," I began. "Let me just get this straight.  As the Big Cheese, you're expected to appoint mice to the Canadian Cheese Consortium, making sure there are always one hundred and five mice at any one time, correct?"  I waved away his response, "Don't bother answering 'til I finish.  You've been makin' appointments to the Consortium but at the very same time, you've been questioning the need for the Consortium in the first place, correct?  You've actually been tellin' the mice of the land that none of them want the Consortium, either.  And yet you continue to appoint appointees, most of whom appear to be your friends."

I stared pointedly at The Big Cheese, waitin' for a response.  He just sat there, eatin' more stinky cheese.

"Okay...." I began once more.  "From what I understand, the appointees to the Canadian Cheese Consortium are supposed to represent the various types of cheese bein' manufactured, sold and eaten by mice throughout the land.  They're supposed to represent the hard, semi-hard, semi-soft and soft cheese divisions, equally.  The Consortium was designed in this manner over a century ago to make sure that all types of cheese manufactured were bein' treated fairly and equally.  So that the most popular types didn't take over the whole Consortium, wreakin' havoc across Mouseland."

The Big Cheese continued to eat his stinky cheese.

"Yes, yes!" the other mice piped up in unison.  "That's how it works, exactly.  We can't have one cheese division takin' over the entire Consortium.  The only way to safeguard the rights of the less-eaten cheeses, is to allow them equal representation in the Consortium!"

The Big Cheese stopped chewin' on his cheese and glared at the mice around him.  "I get to appoint whomever I like to the Consortium.  I'M THE BIG CHEESE.  If I want to appoint all Gorgonzola lovers to the Consortium, I'm allowed to do just that.  It's kind of a tradition."

"Ah yes," I interrupted, "but you're havin' troubles with the Cheddar and Mozzarella factions, are you not?"

"Only because I haven't yet appointed enough of the Gorgonzolas!" cried The Big Cheese.

"MOUSES!  Can't you see what's wrong?" I asked The Big Cheese.  "First of all, you can't go around tellin' all the other mice what they think.  That's gonna cause nothin' but trouble."

"Secondly," I continued, "You have factions within the Consortium who appear to be workin' in ways they shouldn't be workin'.  The appointees are supposed to be representin' the various divisions of cheese.  They are NOT supposed to be representin' you!  And yet you continue to appoint Gorgonzola lovers to the Consortium, knowin' full well you're only appointin' your pals 'cause they all love Gorgonzola like you!"

"But that's what has always been done," and for just a moment, I thought I saw The Big Cheese falter.

"BUT THAT'S NOT WHAT WAS MEANT TO BE DONE!" I cried.

"Luckily for you,"  I told The Big Cheese, "I have a solution.  Why don't you let the leaders of each cheese division choose whom you should appoint.  They know best who would be able to represent them.  Ask them for suggestions and then you appoint whomever they suggest.  I'm sure there will be some Gorgonzola lovers in the bunch but there will also be some Cheddar and Mozzarella lovers, too.  You'll have a nice balance and they'll be representin' the mice they're supposed to represent. What's more, if there any problems," I added in a low voice, "you can always pawn the blame off on the divisional mice who made the suggestions."

"But if I don't appoint my friends to the Consortium, how can I guarantee that they'll do what I tell them to do?" asked The Big Cheese.

"Well...  Well you can't but really, that's the whole point of my suggestion," I answered with a sigh.

The Big Cheese stuffed another chunk of Gorgonzola into his mouth and with a cheese-chewin' muffled voice said, "THAT DOESN'T WORK FOR ME AT ALL."

With a cry of frustration I yelled, "MOUSES!"

I turned to the other mice and explained, "I'm afraid I can't do anythin' with him.  He's just not listenin'."

"Watch what you're saying there, cat," growled The Big Cheese.

I have got to stop eatin' cheese, I thought to myself.  Any more cheese-induced dreams like this and I'll drive myself silly.  MOUSES!

Awaking with a start I thought I heard a small voice off in the distance sayin', "Mice.  The plural form of mouse, is mice."

MOUSES!!!