Blogger's Block (Non-writipuss)

Well, a month has passed since I last blogged and I must beg my readers' forgiveness for not keeping them up to date with feline events at Meadowside. This has not been due to any great veterinary emergency nor even my narcoleptic lifestyle, but merely that I have suffered from an acute case of Blogclot non-writipuss(Blogger's Block); or 'bcnw'. Yes that's berknwah. Goodness what am I talking about! That's the same noise as I make when I'm being sick. Well, I suppose I was sick. Anyhow, it's very trendy to use catronyms for these things nowadays.
Since February has passed, the daffodils are scattered merrily about the lawn and grape hyacinths are creeping delicately skywards. Such Spring tidings are lost, of course, to Lord Millhouse. I'm afraid he has taken once again to the killing fields over the lane and frequently returns with the spoils of his daily campaigns. I watch his return with much dismay for I know how little this amuses the Master; but I do feel just a little self-righteous when the Master tells him off.
"See, I told you so." I say with a lingering frown; eyebrows furrowed and whiskers curled forward.
But he takes little notice.
"'Tis fun," he argues. "Anyway, a young knight must continually hone his hunting skills, and I am helping to keep the vermin at bay. 'Tis more than you do and, after all, what I'm bestest at!"
He leaves another poor grinning corpse on the patio. "Now, where's my lunch?"
I sigh, but deep down know he's right. I used to be quite a rebel in my youthful past. I ranged far and wide. Naughtiness ever on my mind.
However, yesterday he committed the worst sin.
Lately he's been retraining himself for bird table tennis. This is the sport where one hides in the hedge until some unsuspecting feathered friend stops by for some bread and Millhouse dashes across the lawn takes a flying leap at the table and swipes randomly with his paw. This year, having put on some weight, he wasn't quite able to jump high enough for the forearm smash; well not until yesterday that is. Oh dear! Not only did he manage the swipe, he brought the poor little fellow inside still alive! I'll spare you the details, but needless to say the kitchen looked as though a professional chef had been busy! A culinary nightmare: feathers everywhere!
When Mrs came home, it was an 'Elvis has left the building' scenario. "Who on earth made that mess!" We heard as the catflap clicked behind us.
Although it wasn't me, I knew we'd both be for it!
Let's hope this clears my Blogclot. I've got to go and flatten a big plump pillow in the bedroom now; just one of my many daily duties.



Herky