last dance

'Twas the week before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a...

WRONG!!!  That's not what happened at all.  Let me explain.

It was exactly a week before Christmas. Peep #1 put a load of laundry in the washing machine and then came into the family room to spend some time with us cats.  Everything was fine, for a while, but then she started hearing strange noises emanating from the basement.  Bangs and booms and bangity-boom-boom kinds of noises.  MOUSES!

Never one to shy away from strange noises, even if they might be being made by a horde of elephant-sized weasels from that dastardly weaselly enterprise known as the Weasel Syndicate, the peep headed downstairs at a trot.

And what before her wondering eyes did appear?  Let's just say, it wasn't a weasel.  MOUSES!

There before her, the washing machine was doing the dance of the sugarplum fairies.

WRONG!!!  There were no sugarplums, nor fairies, nor anything of the like but the washing machine was dancing up a storm, to be sure.

That's right, the washing machine was dancing across the basement floor, swaying to the left as far as its electrical cord would allow and then back to the right, doing the tango of all tangos and then jigging like a drunken leprechaun let loose at a fiddle fest in the heart of leprechaun country. MOUSES!

Also, there was water all over the place.

Apparently, our washing machine can't handle its liquor.  I mean, water.  I mean...  Actually, I'm not quite sure where I'm going with this.  MOUSES!

So the peep wrangled that washing machine like she was wrangling some poor, helpless beast at a stampede and managed to turn the moused-up dancing thing off.  Yup, she took that washing machine's dance card away and tore it right up, right there on the spot.  MOUSES!

Anyway...

The next morning the plumber arrived and said something 'bout there possibly being tree roots in the pipes and whatnot, not allowing the water from the washing machine to escape.  Said he'd be back with a pal, the very next week.  They were gonna do some digging and investigating and whatnot.

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'Twas two days before Christmas and all through the yard, not a creature was stirring, not even a...

WRONG!!!  There was stuff a-stirring all right.  There was the truck pumping out the septic tank and a backhoe and goodness knows what else back there in my yard, digging and pumping and making a whole lot of noise, to be sure.

Bottom line is, the field into which peeps empty their litter boxes failed its final exam.  MOUSES!

So now there's this gigantic-sized hole, not even a horde of elephant-sized weasels could dig, out in my backyard.  Backhoe is gone but it's coming back here very soon.  And with it will be tonnes - literally! - of rock and whatnot, too.  And pipes.  Lots and lots of pipes, I am told.  Gonna be a mess, I am sure.

Peeps are waiting on permits and paperwork from the Department of Environment before the digging peeps can come back to start working on digging more holes.

Hopefully this permit will be issued quite soon because let me tell you, there is no room for peeps in our litter boxes, to be sure.  We share a lot but when it comes to our litter boxes, share we will not. MOUSES!

Oh, and then there's the snow.

That's right, when all this stuff was going on before Christmas, the ground was soft and bare but now...

Now we've had two major snowstorms in a matter of days.  Gonna have to do something 'bout all that snow before the digging begins, I should think.  So I have a call in to the Weasel Syndicate, hoping they can send over some elephant-sized weasels who might be willing to take some away.  If they think they are stealing it, I think they just might.  Weasels are like that, especially in the dead of the night.

But before I forget, there's one more thing I must say.  Something I sincerely want to wish for you all, if I may.


HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE!  Happy New Year, all.

excuse me but... where's the loo?

You give a sister a job to do.  One little job.  One measly, teeny-tiny, little job and what happens? Nothin'.  Or everythin'.  It all depends upon how you're lookin' at it, I suppose.

I went outside the other day to use the loo.  Oh sure, we have indoor plumbin' and everythin' but every now and then a guy likes to use the great outdoors.  Be one with nature, so to speak.

I have this favourite little spot, just behind the crab apple tree Ol' Peepers planted at the edge of my primrose garden.  The tree is gettin' big enough now to give me a little privacy from pryin' eyes and the ground is nice and soft on account of the peep gardening in and about the area.  It really is the perfect spot for a loo.

So I went outside for a little bathroom break and headed on over to the crab apple tree.  I could immediately tell there was somethin' wrong.  Somethin' didn't look right.  Somethin' was amiss. "MOUSES!" I cried..  "Where's my loo?"

My sister, Mason, just happened to be walkin' past at that very moment.  I gave her the ol' stink eye before askin', "Mason, excuse me but...  WHERE'S THE LOO?"

"Do you mean that guy who moved in over on the other street?  I think his name might be Lou," she replied.  "Or maybe it was Larry..."

"Not Lou.  LOO.  Mouses, Mason.  Try to pay attention, would ya?

After a thorough interrogation of my sister, I had my answer.  The day before, when I had asked Mason to supervise the peep while she was gardenin' so that I could catch up on some nappin', Mason had apparently dropped the ball.  She had dropped the ball right into my loo.  In the soft, rich earth surrounding the crab apple tree, Mason had allowed Peep #1 to plant more primroses.  Mason had allowed Peep #1 to extend the primrose garden and infringe upon the area previously known as my loo.  What was a cat to do?

I stomped back inside the house to use the litter box, callin' behind me, "I have more questions for you, Mason.  You just wait right there.  I'll be back in a mo."

"Mo?" queried Mason?  "Do you mean Lou's wife, Maureen?"

Clearly, Mason was not equipped for tasks such as the supervising of peeps.

A little while later, I ventured outdoors again to continue the interrogation of my sister.  I needed to know exactly what else the peep had been doin' while gardenin' without the necessary supervision.  The supervision Peep #1 so obviously required.

Mason pointed over to an area under some trees. "That's where she planted the sad poppies," she explained.

I looked at my sister, narrowing my eyes.  "The poppies were sad?  Were they half-dead or somethin'?"

"I don't know," answered Mason.  "The peep said they were blue so I assumed they must be sad.  At the time, I was grooming myself and not really paying a lot of attention to her."

I padded over to the newly dug bed and gave the plants a sniff.  They didn't look sad.  They didn't look blue, either.  Of course, they weren't blooming yet but everyone knows that the flowers of poppies are pink and red and yellow.  Even orange.  Even white.  Not blue.  I had never heard of blue poppies, before.

I headed inside to do some on-line research and what did I find?  There was such as thing as blue poppies.  Poppies that were blue.  Who knew?

And my gosh, were they ever beautiful.  I poured over picture after picture of the Himalayan blue poppies on the Internet.  Was the peep really growin' those?  Was she up to such a task?

Probably not.  Actually, definitely not.  Thinkin' about it further, I realised that the peep had, in fact, tried growing those plants before.  She had tried and she had failed.  Failed, miserably.  Failed like no one had ever failed in the history of peepkind.  She didn't get a letter F.  She didn't deserve a letter F.  She got a Z and that was if gradin' with leniency.

No way, no how, was Ol' Peepers gonna get those blue poppies to bloom.

But then I got to thinkin'...

I bet I could help the peep with her blue poppies.  She has grown other kinds of poppies before.  Poppies that are easy to grow.  Shirley poppies and Icelandic poppies and whatnot.  Maybe if she were to grow some of those other poppies, I could...

YES!  I had my answer.  I had a plan.  I knew what I must do.

Next year, when other, easy-to-grow poppies are bloomin' away in the garden, I'll sneak out in the dead of night, and paint those poppies, blue.  The peep'll never know the difference.  I'll paint 'em really well.  It'll make her day.  Paintin' poppies.  That is EXACTLY what I shall do.  MOUSES!

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Only two days left!  Votin' for the Petties is still goin' on but will end at midnight, PST, on Thursday August 7th.  You can still vote today and tomorrow.  Won't you please vote for me?  I'd really appreciate it a lot.  purrs