Bongo woke the neighborhood at 5:45 this morning, yowling mournfully by the window as though his heart had been broken by some Persian princess. Turns out, it was a 22-pound calico with a mangy tail, passing through the side yard. I got up, turned on a few lights, and gave Bongo a quick pat, hoping I could pull him out of his jag and go back to sleep. But his whiskers twitched and he carried on with his mewing and chirping and chattering as he continued to track the calico--a rather disgusting creature with a mud-caked tail and a lumbering gait. "Bongo, what the hell?" I hissed. He ignored me. Lola blinked disdainfully from the foot of the bed.
Finally, I fell back asleep and managed to squeeze in another hour and a half before the meows cut through my consciousness once again. It was 7:30am on a Sunday morning, and I was hungry for some form of revenge.
There is very little that can stupefy a cat, but I know of at least one thing. So I brewed some coffee and settled down in the living room with a bottle of bubble solution, and enjoyed the ensuing display of feline consternation, startlement, and cautious intrigue.
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