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Dear reader, you simply will not believe my latest tale of insult and woe, though I assure you, it is entirely the truth. Against all the odds, once again forces outside my control reached into my hard-won life of luxury, indulgence, and adoration and sought to ruin it.
Intruders, my friends! Fiends, trespassers, detestable blackguards! That is what I must speak of today.
It was in the middle of the most heavenly of evening naps that they burst into my home. Curled sweetly between My Bucky and My Steve on the bed—oh, the warmest of spots!—I was innocently dozing, occupying the perfect rectangle of their loving devotion while they slept softly around me: content, safe, home, mine. All was as it should be.
But then!
Scoundrels burst through the windows from which I supervise the rabble outside! Can you believe the audacity? Such monstrous villainy, it still shocks me now. Amidst the tumult of shattering glass and ungainly stomping, they also pointed great sticks whose ends blew up over and over with frighteningly loud sounds right at our lovely bed!
I was not frightened, of course. I only mean to convey to you, good readers, the sheer belligerence of this unmannerly invasion.
Fortunately, My Bucky and My Steve are as catlike as humans can be, and responded to this incursion with almost the speed and awareness that I myself displayed. As one, we bound from our disturbed slumber to defend our home. From the top of the bookshelf, I hissed mightily as they rolled off the far side of our bed. Then, while they ducked behind the mattress—requiring a few moments to arm themselves and regroup—I led the offense against these shameless transgressors.
It was a simple matter to leap from my perfect vantage point onto the neck and shoulders of the first and bring to bear my superior gifts of claw and fang. Above the sound of the blasting sticks, I heard My Bucky call my name in fear. Ah, he loves me so. But his worry was unfounded as I, dear reader, am a true killer. It's a talent that must be both inborn and well-practiced. And I have honed my instinct to the finest degree.
I have stalked and brought down the crunchy, flying entities that pester My Steve and make him curse. I have hunted scritching pantry-thieves and laid them at the feet of my beloved Bucky, the King of my Heart, to which he always responds with extra pets and treats and praise, rewarding my guardianship of our home. The few times I have deigned to visit the outdoors, both fierce, slithery noodles and chirping, winged beasts have fallen to my incredible talents. There is nothing quite as satisfying as a victim's final struggle between my relentless teeth.
(Perhaps the delightful toys My Bucky and My Steve bring to me...Perhaps.)
Overwhelmed by my assault, my adversary cried out in dread and pain and flailed pathetically, swinging into one of its partners in this appalling offense. Together they stumbled, their awful weapons diverted from my humans, as intended. Huge, clumsy hands scrabbled at me, but I clung on even as my prey toppled to the floor, my ferocity undimmed. Its tender flesh split underneath my claws and the potent scent of blood fueled my rage. Again, I thought. Again!
Finally, hoisting their own explosive armaments, My Bucky and My Steve joined the battle. Their size and strength availed them greatly and it seemed only moments before every other attacker was felled as well. Quick and certain, My Bucky and My Steve dispatched them from this mortal coil, ending their pitiful groans without mercy. I have the finest of pets, if I do say so myself.
As for myself, I bit into the straining neck of my own opponent and tore. He gurgled gratifyingly until he went, too, still.
My Bucky scooped me up then and hugged me close, pressing his face into my beautiful fur—still pristine, for I am not a sloppy heathen. Even when engaged in violent pursuits, I do not suffer from a lack of delicacy and elegance, as my Bucky acknowledged effusively. Compliments and words of devotion poured from him, and I purred my admiration for his own deadly competence in return.
My Steve joined us, providing grateful scratches around my ears and cheeks. "Good girl, good girl," he crooned proudly. "Once a killer, always a killer, isn't that right, Miss Alpine?"
Indeed.
And that concludes my story, good reader. Your kind attention is, as always, treasured.
One parting word of wisdom: If you are not already as skilled in the arts of murder as myself and my humans, I advise you to train a little harder, for you never know you will need to kill something.
END
Come talk to me about all things Alpine!