Cat On A Hyacinth Hunt

Chapter 4

The Bums Rush

I knew something fishy was afoot.

And I am not referring merely to the stocking-clad human foot that has been well aged in Bruno Magli footwear.

I knew it before I was fully awake, when I felt my muscular form being shunted aside by a force dark and vast and as elemental as the universe.

In this case, by the time I opened my eyes to observe the cataclysmic change in my situation, I had identified the Force's current manifestation as the Mystifying Max. (And I was much faster at this elementary deduction than my dear Miss Temple Barr was a few minutes later when she opened her baby blue-grays to the Change.)

I cannot say how it happened, save that I was supplanted in my slumber. Swept aside by mere sleight of hand. Slid out of my accustomed place before I had blinked the sleep from my eyes. Left the lower corner of the coverlet for my reduced lot. Claim-jumped.

Of course I could not accept this vastly reduced territory.

I immediately leaped to the bedroom floor, playing into the usurper's hand, and stalked to a corner of the room to consider my retaliation under the guise of grooming my ruffled fur.

Naturally, no one noticed.

Had Miss Temple been in her right senses, I have no doubt she would have observed my ousting and repaired the damage.

As it was, she was in no condition to come to my defense, having so recently--and so ineffectively--come to her own.

I cannot blame her for this dereliction of duty. Nor can I blame the Mystifying Max for exercising his territorial imperative. That is what we guys do.

I do blame myself for catnapping at a crucial time, when the balance of power was up for grabs. And I do blame that handy goat for all things grungy and inglorious: Cliff Effinger. I am getting sick and tired of this creep messing up the calm domestic lives of me and mine.

Someone will pay for this unseating, and it will not be feline.

Count on it.