That Purrle

Last month, he planned a vacation in Colorado. Remember, if he can't see me, he thinks I can't see him.


Like I wasn't going to notice him when I tried to squeeze in all the toiletries left behind by McSpazzy and her husband after their visit?


He's not the brightest cat in the box.

He thinks he's gifted...or a gift. A Father's Day gift. NOT.


Neither was it very brainy of him to plant himself in the abyss (/basement) last night. I'd stood poised above the entrance, myself, SugarPlum in arms, as the scanner kept saying things like "wall cloud" and "rotation" in sentences which also included the name of our tiny town and only our tiny town. Rude. Nothing less than words like those could force me to brave the descent. I wasn't going down there unless I absolutely had to. I didn't have to. Purrle, on the other hand, was rabid to race to the bottom, before I'd even had a chance to sweep the cobwebs and debris from the narrow, treacherous, uninviting, hideous, most scary stairwell.

When all the fuss was over, I noticed he was keeping watch over the doorway, ready to scamper into the broom closet, in hopes that cellar-styled door would still be lifted. Apparently, someone did open the door later...and close it...with Purrle inside. Following the meowcries this morning, I opened the closet, and out ran the giftedNOT, fat cat. "Did you have a good night, Purrley Cat? Are you finished compulsing over the broom closet now?"

That Purrle.

Cause me to hear thy lovingkindness in the morning; for in thee do I trust: cause me to know the way wherein I should walk; for I lift up my soul unto thee. ~Psalm 143:8