Monday, August 24, 2009

Psychotropic Substances are Introduced; I enjoy the Games of Death

In an attempt to distract me from destroying her cherished and wretched houseplants, the Woman has cultivated in me a chemical dependence on catnip and wheat grass. It is incredible. I cry for my drugs if I do not get them, and I am given a single blade of grass to consume each morning. She crumbles a leaf of the catnip and rubs it on a toy, and the fumes rising from Mr. Mousie's fur drive me into the most apoplectic frenzy.

Incredible that for all my human years I had taken for granted the human feline relationship. Dogs have been bred into larger and larger sizes, such as the mastiff, the wolfhound, the St. Bernard, and yet humanity was only too aware that to do the same with a housecat would be folly.

Over and over again, I symbolically hunt, chase, pounce on and disembowel my stuffed toys--especially my stuffed panther, Klaus. Ah, the satisfaction! I was dissuaded from firebombing his house all those years ago; the savage joy of chewing on the panther's velour neck is one that could never be surpassed, even if Kinski ran screaming and wreathed in roaring flame from his burning bungalow, his eyes in runnets like warm jelly. The image warms my heart with elemental hatred and love.

I digress.

The People enjoy my pantomines of death nearly as much as I do, but they do not play as much as they should. And this 'toy on a string' so they can throw it and retrieve it without getting up bullshit is unacceptable. A morning's play session for me would be such an intense cardiovascular challenge to them that their blood would boil out their pores in a mist of superheated red steam.

Perhaps I have been ingesting too much catnip. My mind of late has been nought but horror and violence.

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