twenty-five weeks

You take me for granted, Peepers.  YOU TAKE ME FOR GRANTED!

Don't think I don't know 'bout it bein' Ginger Cat Appreciation Day last week.  DON'T THINK I DON'T KNOW!

And FYI, Peepers: I, Seville the Cat, AM A GINGER.

MOUSES!

But did we celebrate?  Did you throw me a party?  Did you make me a cake?

DID YOU BUY ME MORE NIP?  HUH?  HUH?  HUH?  DID YOU?

No, you did not a thing.

MOUSES!

Stupid peep.

MOUSES!

Oh sure, you did set up that big gigantic ENORMOUS litter box, outside.

BUT THEN YOU COMPLAINED WHEN I USED IT!

Again, stupid peep.

MOUSES!

What?  What's that, Peepers?  What's that you're babblin' on about now?

LIKE I TOLD YOU ON WEDNESDAY: IF IT LOOKS LIKE A LITTER BOX AND WORKS LIKE A LITTER BOX, IT IS A LITTER BOX, PEEPERS.  And I don't wanna hear nothing 'bout no stupid raised beds for veggies ever again.

MOUSES!

You know, when a kitty finds out there's a special day set aside especially for himself and other marmalade kitties like him, a kitty should be able to expect his peeps will throw him a party.

The LEAST you could have done was salmon mousse cupcakes with catnip cream cheese icing.

BUT DID I GET ANY OF THAT?

No.  Nadda.  Not a thing.

All I got was cheek.

MOUSES!

And speakin' of cheek...

IT'S SUPER CHEEKY OF PEEPS TO THINK THERE SHOULD BE CELEBRATIONS FOR THEM, WHEN NONE OF 'EM ARE DOIN' ANYTHIN' TO CELEBRATE ME.

What?  What's that, Peepers?  What's that you're babblin' on about NOW?

What do you MEAN "EVERY DAY" is a day where you celebrate me?  What do you MEAN?

Seriously, Peepers, what DO you mean?  'Cause I'm not seein' it, here.

I WANT A PARTY!

A big party.  A big party 'specially for me.  A party with all the cats in the neighbourhood, and...

Scratch that.  I don't really like the other cats in the neighbourhood.

Hmmm...

Okay, how 'bout this?  Peppers, you bake me a cake filled with yummy stuff like tuna and catnip and things, then pile on the prezzies - FYI, I like nipmice - and then...

Then...

Then take out a full page ad in the paper 'bout how wonderful I am, and how stupid you are for makin' me miss out on Ginger Cat Appreciation Day, and...

I'M NOT DONE YET.

Don't interrupt or I'll have to start all over again.

And in that ad, Peepers, you can explain how I've been cooped up in this here house with you two peeps for one hundred and thirty-six million, eighty thousand seconds in cat time, and how I must be like some kinda extra-special SAINT havin' put up with you for so long, and...

AND HOW I'M WILLIN' TO ACCEPT DONATIONS OF CATNIP.

You know, if anyone has any lyin' around.

Got that, Peepers?  HUH?

Good.

MOUSES!

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

And remember:

IF IN DOUBT,

DON'T. GO. OUT.

Continue to practice SOCIAL DISTANCIN' measures

AND KEEP WASHIN' YOUR PAWS.

MOUSES!

Remember to mask up, too.

twenty-four weeks

Shakespeare's got NOTHIN' on me.

MOUSES!

Yeah, yeah..   I know.  I know what you're thinkin'.  I know he's more famous, and all that.

But...

But he wasn't a cat.

MOUSES!

Can you imagine?  Can you IMAGINE how much greater Will would have been, had he been feline?

MOUSES!

I was doin' a little light readin' the other night, and discovered somethin' interestin'.  DID YOU KNOW that William Shakespeare turned to writin' poetry durin' the plague in the 1590s?

Yup, that's what he did.

I read it on the Internet so it must be true.

MOUSES!

They...

Now I have no idea who THEY are, but they seemed to know what they were talkin' about, and what they were sayin' fit my PURRsonal narrative, so I figured I'd go with what THEY said, without investigatin' any further.

So anyway...

So anyway, they said that Will...

I call him Will, on account of my bein' pretty sure that if he and I, Seville the Cat, were livin' at the same time, we'd be on a first name basis, you see.

MOUSES!

But like I was sayin'...

Like I was sayin', THEY said that Will turned to writin' poetry on account of all the theatres bein' shut down for about six months, due to The Plague.

So I figured, if Will turned to poetry durin' the plague, I should try my paw at a little poetry myself.  After all, Will didn't have to be cooped up in the same house as Peep #1 and Peep #2 for like an absolute eternity.

Like me.

MOUSES!

So after bein' stuck here with the peeps for like ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY MILLION, six hundred and thirty-six thousand, eight hundred cat seconds, I present to you...

MY sonnet.

I call it, Ode to a Puddle.

MOUSES!

Nothing is as fresh nor as sweet, my love,

as the divine taste of rain that has fall'n

on the path which lies there, next to my house.

The joyful rain that collects in puddles

is known to felines here and everywhere

as puddle water; water that puddles.

For the water that puddles is Heavn's gift

to all who appreciate the finer

things in life, like catnip and wand toys and

nip mice.  Oh, the sweet water of puddles.

It comes not from a tap nor a fountain.

'Tis not from anything paw or hand made.

The water that puddles is a sweet gift

from the sky above; pure freshness for me.

So what do you think?  Are you thinkin' what I'm thinkin?

'Cause I'm thinkin'...

I'm thinkin', Will would have been proud to have called me his contemporary.

Had I been alive in the sixteenth century, of course.

Actually, I think that might mean the same thing.

MOUSES!

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

And remember:

IF IN DOUBT,

DON'T. GO. OUT.

Continue to practice SOCIAL DISTANCIN' measures

AND KEEP WASHIN' YOUR PAWS.

MOUSES!

Remember to mask up, too.