My Comrade In Chaos

The other day while I was at the vet thingy's office, I was reunited with an old acquaintance.

Zharkhov, the self-proclaimed "Guardian of The Land of Unpleasant Pokings". You may remember Zharkhov (aka Mr. Tinky) from an earlier post called "A Foreign  Exchange". (click on the title to follow the link). Zharkhov, was the resident cat at the veterinary hospital where I was being treated after nearly shredding this mortal coil.

In the short time that I was sequestered in the Land of Unpleasant Pokings, I had grown quite fond of the old Russian Blue. His eccentric manner and odd way of speaking had quickly endeared him to me and I have often wondered how he fared.

As luck would have it, Thursday, while attending my quarterly health check, I heard a familiar voice coming from the adjoining exam room:

"Vad do you tink you are dewink? I am not needing unpleasant pokings! I am finest spaceyman of roobust Rooshan healdt. Back away wit dat unpleasant poking dewice!" Suddenly there were the sounds of a scuffle, a blood-curdling scream, followed by the sounds of two legger footsteps beating a hasty retreat down the corridor.

"Zharkhov?" I called.

"Da. Who dis dat calls de name of Zharkhov?"

"It is I, Cujo, High Poobah and Supreme Ruler of All Universe Thingies (known and unknown), Menacer of Squirrels and Smacker of All Things Whiny!" I replied.

"Ah, da, I remember now. You are leetle oreo cat dat weesited last year. You not dead?"

"Not that I'm aware of. In fact, I seem to be very much alive and well." I said

"Da, is good. Being dead is bad for health".

At this point, one of the vet techs came in and took me to the lab for my bloodwork. At the same time, another tech had grabbed Zharkhov and brought him to the lab as well. After placing us in adjoining kennels, the tech went about their unpleasant business leaving Zharkhov and I to speak in relative privacy.

I asked him why he was no longer allowed to roam the halls of the Land of Unpleasant Pokes. Come to find out, he no longer resided there. It seems that shortly after our last meeting, Zharkhov had been reassigned to a new location. He is now the Official Therapy Cat and Mascot at Sunny Acres Retirement Home.

Intrigued, I asked him to describe his new life.

"It is not so bad.", he began, "Land of Wrinkled Two Leggers is wast. Many different rooms and beds upon vich to lay. Zharkhov has many laps to choose from. Wrinkled ones move wery slowly. Some wrinkled ones no move at all. Wery relaxing. Much food for Zharkhov. Wrinkled ones often drop food on floor. Dis prowides many snacks for Zharkhov. Only ting Zharkhov no like is veelchairs. Veelchairs make Zharkhov's tail nerwous. Also, smells not so good."

Zharkhov was describing an ideal life for a cat. Unlimited napping, unlimited laps, food around every corner, constant attention and affection. He told me that they even had something called a "sun room" with floor to ceiling windows where the residents could spend the day quietly contemplating the abundance of bird thingies just outside.

In spite of his description of this idyllic existence, I couldn't help but feel sorry for him. There seemed to be one vital ingredient missing........chaos. How could any card-carrying feline possibly be content living in a place that was engineered to be completely serene and peaceful? Where they frown upon spontaneity? Where calmness was encouraged and mayhem was discouraged? No, my friends, this is no life for a proud Rooshan cat whose ancestors had once graced the laps of czars, czarinas, emperors and other various cyrillic despots.

I asked Zharkhov about this discrepancy.

"Da, is boring at times. Boring is sometimes good ting for old cat such as I. But Zharkhov not alvays bored. Zharkhov has vay of keeping amused. Zharkhov knows old two legger legend of Banshee. Banshee is spirit dat wisits two leggers before dey die. Banshee makes keening sound in middle of night. So sometimes in meedle of night Zharkhov make Banshee sounds."

"And this makes the wrinkled ones panic?" I asked hopefully.

"Nyet, bod it makes dem spill dere jellos. Zharkhov likes dere jellos."

Well, I can't argue with that.

Soon the vet thingy came and told me that my checkup was good and that I was healthy as could be. As I was carried from the room, I looked back and waved farewell to my Rooshan friend.

"Da sveedaneeya my bi-colored comrade", he said. "Next time bring wodka".

     

Treasure Hunt

Two leggers seem obsessed with mysteries. Whether it is unexplained happenings, undiscovered creatures or supernatural events. They never tire of seeking answers for the unanswerable.

And yet they call us curious.

But the one type of mystery that really gets them going is that of "hidden treasure".

It seems that throughout two legger history, every lost culture, every outlaw or rogue, every secret society and every wealthy hermit has reportedly left behind a hoard of treasure, cleverly hidden in some remote region. Like squirrel thingies stashing nuts for Winter, they supposedly bury their belongings in totally inaccessible locations in the theory that they will someday return to reclaim said hoard. In order to confound anyone seeking their wealth, they often leave cryptic clues and maps behind that generally lead to more cryptic clues and maps that eventually lead to absolutely nothing.

There are literally thousands of such legends and yet in all of recorded history not a single treasure hoard had been discovered. If there were truly that many out there, one would think that at least one would have been discovered by accident.

And yet they persist.

My two leggers have been watching a program on the talking box thingy about one such legend. It is called " The Curse of Oak Island". For over 125 years two leggers have been tearing up an island off the coast of Nova Scotia looking for a treasure that they are convinced is buried there. Every week they announce some new lead or technique that they are convinced will guarantee them success in uncovering the treasure.

Heck, they don't even know what the treasure is, who buried it, or even when they supposedly buried it. Theories about the treasure include pirate thingies hiding booty, Knights Templar hiding either the Ark of The Covenant or the Holy Grail, Aztecs hiding gold, Vikings hiding loot, Canadians hiding goats and someone from Kentucky hiding his famous fried-chicken recipe.

They spend tons of money and time trying to find the theoretical bounty. Digging, diving, researching, metal detecting, they have attempted every known method to solve the mystery.

And yet they have missed the most obvious method of all........

At the beginning of every episode, the narrator says in an over-dramatic voice: "The Legend of Oak Island states that nine men must die before the Island gives up its treasure. Eight men have died over the last 125 years trying to find the treasure......."

Duh, the solution is simple. Pick the most unpopular guy on the team and make it look like an accident. Problem solved and plus, one less person to share with.

Be that as it may, I have decided that since the two leggers are so obsessed with searching for treasure, I would entertain them by setting up a little "treasure hunt" of my own. I often steal things from them for my own amusement, but in this case it would be for theirs.

So, what should I hide?

I considered hiding the key to the liquor cabinet. But the male two legger keeps his stomach medicine in the liquor cabinet. I know that sounds odd, but you see, he loves orange juice. He once read somewhere that orange juice is very acidic and in large amounts can damage the lining of the stomach. So in order to avoid this, he only drinks orange juice that has been liberally diluted with tequila. Hiding the key may prove detrimental to his health, so that rules that out.

I once stole the female's earrings and hid one in the Royal Litter Box. Their panicked search was quite amusing, but I made the mistake of mentioning it in the blog thingy, so they are now wise to that ploy.

It needed to be something small and easily concealed, yet also so valuable or useful that the two leggers would move heaven and earth to recover it. Something that they would not rest until they had solved the riddle and recovered the item. Something so precious that they would risk life and limb to get it back.

Suddenly it hit me!

The one object that they hold in such high regard that it has its own special box. It rests in a place of honor and used more often than any other utensil....................the corkscrew. (cue dramatic music)

In the wee hours of the night, when the two leggers were asleep and all was depressingly quiet, I crept into the kitchen, found the corkscrew and removed it from its box. I quickly concealed it in the one place that I knew the two leggers would never look. Yup, I hid it in the tool box. The male's tool box has not been opened in over ten years. The female won't open it because it is dirty. The male won't open it because if he did, he might be expected to fix something.

After concealing the loot, I made an unreasonably complicated treasure map complete with a bunch of very ambiguous clues and passwords. I then placed the map and clues in the box which once held the corkscrew.

Alas, my plot was foiled. Little did I know that my two leggers who NEVER have a contingency plan for ANYTHING, happened to be prepared for this particular disaster. Upon the discovery of the theft, the female immediately pulled a spare corkscrew out of the cupboard and opened the wine bottle without missing a beat.

Upon investigation, I discovered that they have spare corkscrews stashed in every room of my house and two in the bathrooms!

I admit that I am quite annoyed that my plot failed. However, I suppose that I can take comfort in the fact that should the apocalypse occur, my two leggers may starve, but they won't go thirsty.

Tree-mendous

It is the end of an old year and the beginning of a new year. In two legger culture it is perceived as a time of transition, reflection and introspection. They either mourn or celebrate the events that occurred during the past year, while they either anticipate or dread the possibilities of the coming year.

For us cats, it is Friday.

Just another day filled with naps, food, and if we are fortunate.....chaos.

Well, the day was not entirely uneventful. In a manner of speaking, today was a day of transition for us felines as well. For you see, today we mourn the passing of the greatest cat toy of all.........the Christmas tree thingy came down.

To make matters worse, it came down intentionally........completely unassisted by yours truly.

Yes, the two leggers have removed my tree and packed it away until next December. They have packed away all the scornaments and dropsicles. They have removed all the shiny, battable and breakable parts, all the cutesy knock-knacks that amuse me during the holiday season. They have secured all baubles that I enjoy making go bump in the night.

I of course, "supervised".

Now when I say "supervise", I mean that I did everything within my power to make the experience as aggravating, miserable and frustrating as possible. It is my duty as the local household god thingy to hinder all activities that the two leggers deem "constructive". Fortunately for my purposes, the two leggers invariably make my mission easy in the extreme.......

After checking that all four of us feline types were contentedly napping in our nappy spots, the two leggers began by bringing four very large, empty, plastic boxes into the living room. Upon opening, these four very large, empty, plastic boxes were instantly occupied by four, no longer napping cats. It is a well-known law of nature that any empty box, no matter how large or small, must contain at least one cat within 5.3 seconds of opening. In the case of there being more boxes than available cats, other items such as catnip mousie thingies, hairballs (preferably damp) and milk carton rings may be used as substitutes. All attempts at removing cats from the aforementioned boxes must be met with extreme resistance up to, and including, bloodshed.

However, the two leggers being the determined creatures that they are, eventually succeeded in the removal of the feline occupants. This was not unexpected and only served to mark the beginning of Phase II of my annual post-Christmas chaos.

While the female two legger concentrated on removing Tiger Lily and Jaq from their individual boxes, Ivan and I had already accomplished the removal of several scornaments from the lower branches of the tree thingy. These were immediately batted down the hallway, thus initiating a spontaneous game of Hallway Hockey. Our game was short-lived when the female broke up the game by confiscating our "puck" and fixing both of us with a malevolent glare and using two fingers on her right paw in the international gesture of "I'm watching you!".

Having exited her box, Tiger Lily pounced upon the tree skirt and began furiously skrooching.*

* For those of you unfamiliar with the term "skrooching", it is the act of sliding one's front paws around the top of any flat piece of material such as a bed sheet, blanket or towel as though something small has been lost beneath the material and must be recovered with all possible haste. During the skrooch, one must keep their head and shoulders hunched low with forepaws outstretched while the hindquarters remain elevated and tail straight up or slightly bent. A manic or "crackhead" look on one's face completes the effect.   

During her skrooch, Tiger Lily managed to dislodge several more scornaments and very nearly brought the entire tree thingy down when she slammed against the trunk in her enthusiasm. Once again, the female intervened and chased Tiger Lily from the room.

In the meantime, Jaq had taken advantage of the distraction and had climbed to the very top of the tree thingy where she had developed a jealous fascination with the angel that was perched atop the highest branch. She decided that she was a better tree-topper than the current occupant and with a mighty swat, sent the angel thingy flying. Well, perhaps "flying" is not the correct term because the angel's wings never even flapped on its plummet to the floor. 

I guess Lucifer was not the only fallen angel.

Sadly, the impact of the angel striking the floor drew the attention of the male two legger and Jaq was subsequently removed from the top of the tree thingy and locked in the guest bedroom. 

By this time, Ivan and I had been banished to the computer room, Tiger Lily was incarcerated in the master bedroom and Jaq in the guestroom. Thus ended any further opportunities for us to assist the two leggers. We all voiced our great displeasure at this exclusion from the fun, mrowring and scratching at the doors, but our protests went unheeded. 

So now the two leggers have finished. The tree thingy and all of its accoutrements have been packed away for another year. The front rooms have been returned to their normal configuration. 

But all is not lost. In all the excitement, the two leggers failed to keep an accurate count of the glass ball thingies. It seems that two of the scornaments may have "accidentally" rolled beneath the wine cabinet and thereby forgotten by the two leggers.

I assure you, they have not been forgotten by me.............

I hope you all have a very happy and blessed New Year!   

Ivan Vs. Santa Claus

Though many have described me as "fearless", I must confess that I do indeed harbor one particular fear. Simply put, It is the fear of becoming predictable.

Predictability in a benevolent dictator (or cat) can lead to the loss of fear in one's minions. It can give them ideas of mutiny or even usurpation. It may even lead some unenlightened two leggers to believe that they actually have some control in their meager little lives.

Unacceptable.

The reason I bring this up is because last Christmas, Santa seemed unusually well-prepared during his visit to my Kingdom. He showed up wearing hockey pads, heavy welding-type gloves and armed with a can of pepper spray. Judging by his agile maneuvering, I also suspect that he has been dabbling in the martial arts.

I still managed to rough him up a bit, but I confess that it was a near run thing.

The only possible conclusions I can draw is that I have either become predictable, or he has begun reading my blog thingy.

Either way, a change of strategy was in order.

So this year I decided to delegate my Christmastime chaos to Ivan.

I played the part of Ebeneezer Scrooge after his night of visitations. I appeared sweet, generous and filled with the spirit of Noel. When he entered my house, I sat serenely upon my throne and bid him welcome with a lyrical purr and a totally non-evil smile upon my face.

Given our "history", I was not surprised that he did not trust my sudden transformation. His anxiety was palpable. He crept slowly towards the tree with his bag of presents in one mittened hand and a Tazer in the other, never taking his wary eyes off of me. I simply watched him and began licking my paw in a manner that broadcast "I am perfectly at ease and I bear you no ill will my good sir.".  I then curled up, head to tail, and pretended to fall asleep.

Finally, his ill-advised innate optimism got the better of him. He holstered his Tazer, put down his bag and began carefully placing presents under my tree. He was still fairly skittish and tended to jump at every slight sound, but soon he relaxed and set himself to his task.

It was at this moment that Ivan made his move.........

Amazingly, Ivan had managed to hide himself under the tree skirt and had miraculously refrained from giggling in a fit of pre-ambush mirth. As Santa bent over to remove a present from his bag, Ivan jumped from beneath the tree thingy and proceeded to viciously maul Santa just below his kneecap. Santa responded by grabbing a pair of candy canes and used them like nunchucks, beating Ivan on his head thingy.

The rapid, staccato sound of the candy canes reverberating through the house caused Jaq to suddenly launch into a very creditable rendition of "The Little Drummer Boy" by Bing Crosby and David Bowie. It is uncanny how she can perform a duet by herself.

Owing to Santa's poor choice of targeting Ivan's noggin, his counter-attack had little affect. In a great slashing, tearing and mrowring whirlwind of stinky orange fur, Ivan continued his attack as though he believed that Santa was smuggling several whole tunas beneath his silly red suit.

I have no idea who would have told Ivan that Santa was a notorious fish smuggler.........

Unfortunately, Ivan's attack was suddenly curtailed when a pair of socks, obviously intended as a gift for some ill-behaved adolescent two legger, fell out of the sack thus becoming SIUPs (Socks In Unexpected Places, Ivan's worst fear). This caused Ivan to totally poof and bolt from the room, knocking over the tree thingy in the process....I guess one could say that "the fir really flew". In his panic, he also managed to upend Santa who came down with a horrendous, yet spectacularly wonderful, CRASH!

The crash was so loud and mighty that it actually caused me to bolt and in my panic I accidentally broke  a lamp and four wine glasses.

Now this may sound like a lot of damage for a few seconds of extreme panic, but trust me, it only took me a second to break the lamp and only 18 minutes to get into the cabinet to break the wine glasses.

It's amazing what can happen when one panics.

I hope you all have a very safe and merry Christmas filled with joy and chaos.

Chaotic Christmas Conundrum

The Holiday Season has always been my favorite time of year. The firebox thingy runs pretty much full time, the two leggers turn up the thermostat, the nights are longer allowing more opportunities for chaos, and best of all......the Christmas knock-knacks are plentiful. Even FaceBook amuses me with the numerous pictures of my fellow felines attacking and destroying yuletide decorations across the world. 

However, this year I have noticed a steep decline in the pictures of destroyed Christmas trees, shattered decorations and murdered mangers.

I find this disturbing, unsettling, and unacceptable.

Something must be done. Obviously, some instruction is in order. Yes, instruction for destruction.

Now I am well aware that my audience consists of more than cats. But this next part is intended for felines only. Anyone who is non-feline should look away (especially two leggers). I will let you know when you can start reading again......Yes, this includes that poodle-dog who is still peeking in Kansas City!

Okay, now that it is just us cats, I have to say that I am VERY disappointed in you. However, I understand  that it is possible that it is not your fault. Perhaps, I have not been vigilant in providing proper instruction on how to make your holidays more festive. In order to rectify this oversight, I shall now offer you the guidance you require.

First of all, the two leggers have gone to a lot of effort to erect and decorate the largest cat toy you will ever behold. A tree filled with assorted knock knacks and danglies. A veritable smorgasborg of chaos. It would be ungracious not to dispatch it with extreme prejudice.

This being said, I understand that in this age of "live and let live", (cough, cough) many of you may have been brain-washed into thinking that this philosophy applies to us as well.

It doesn't.

Let's get back to basics. Professor Cujo is in the house.......

This is a Christmas tree thingy.

The long, thin crystalline thingies that dangle from the branches are known as "Dropsicles". They are made to be batted, slapped and make a pleasant tinkling sound when they hit the floor. Once grounded, they can be used as "the puck" in the annual holiday game of Hallway Hockey. These can provide hours of fun. However, I encourage you to be responsible and always dispose them under the stove when you are finished with them.

Another element of every properly decorated tree thingy are the large round decorative balls known as "scornaments". Scornaments are generally made of brightly colored glass that is very fragile and therefore perfectly suited to illustrating Newton's 12th Law, that being: "Any glass object thingy that is dropped from a distance greater than two tailspans due to the implementation of force administered by a feline paw will shatter upon contact with the floor into a variety of razor-sharp shards. The mass of razor-sharp shards will be equal to exactly 174.82% of the mass of the original glass object thingy". 

The light thingies are off-limits. As Ivan can attest, biting and, or chewing upon strands of electric lights, while amusing, can result in pain, electrocution, and frizzy fur. Ivan seems to enjoy this, but I do not recommend it for anyone in possession of more than three active brain cells. 

The material that covers the base of the tree thingy serves several purposes. It serves as concealment when stalking the scornaments and dropsicles. With a proper running start, it makes a great sliding surface, allowing one to glide gracefully across the floor while smacking ferociously at any dangly parts of the tree thingy. It may also be used as a hairball repository when one wishes save them for later placement.

When causing Christmas chaos, you must always consider the consequences of your midnight mayhem. Personally, I prefer to take credit for my destruction while at the same time avoiding any responsibility for said destruction. Fortunately, I have three scapegoats....... er, I mean companions, with whom I can share the blame. Those of you who live in mixed-species households have the luxury of blaming the dog. This is easily accomplished with the placement of a rawhide bone or pair of underwear at the base of the tree thingy. Those of you lacking the presence of fellow four leggers may still avoid the water squirty thingy by simply purring loudly and blaming disembodied spirits (see poltergeist).

Finally, remember that the tree thingy is not the only opportunity for chaos during the holiday season. The two leggers often provide many other amusing decorations for us to destroy. My personal favorite is the nativity scene. There is something extraordinarily satisfying in gnawing the heads of miniature two leggers.

I hope that with these hints you may enjoy a very chaotic and satisfying season of mayhem and destruction.

Okay, all of you non-feline types may start reading now.......I would like to wish you all a happy Holiday Season and just ignore anything you may hear after 2am.




 

Scar Wars

I have noticed that there seems to be a lot of buzz about some movie thingy called "Star Wars". Apparently the newest segment in the series is about be released and everywhere I look online is someone going nuts with anticipation.

Since my two leggers are fans of Science-Fiction, I am often needlessly exposed to such nonsense. Though they prefer "Star Trek" to "Star Wars", they have been known to indulge in both franchises. In fact, in anticipation of the premier of the new movie, they have been watching the earlier chapters of the ongoing saga.

Now I am fully aware that 99.938% of the entire human population is familiar with the story line of Star Wars (the only two leggers who don't know of it belong to a small, recently discovered tribe of denim-wearing, semi-toothed, thicket-dwelling moonshine swillers in southwestern Arkansas), but I will now summarize the story for you.

Star Wars is basically the tragic story of a brave and heroic two legger who strives to unite the Universe, but in the end is thwarted by his son Luke Skywalker and several other poorly dressed meddlers and do-gooders who do not appreciate his efforts.

While I find the fact that they killed off our hero, Darth Vader, quite depressing and anti-climatic, I have to say that the series does have some redeeming qualities. The overgrown Roomba, R2D2 provides comic relief and I am deeply moved by the great philosopher Jar-Jar Binx. Also, in each movie there is much fussing and fighting which never fails to amuse me.

However, there is one aspect to the series that truly fascinates me.........The Force.

The theory is that The Force is an underlying energy in the universe thingy that if tapped, allows the tapper to move stuff, break things and manipulate small-minded people to do their bidding.

Interesting.

According to the narrative, there are two different sides of The Force: The Dark Side and the Light Side.

If one masters the Dark Side, one must dress in black, speak in a deep baritone voice, snicker on occasion and always exit a room (even a bathroom) in a most dramatic fashion. Also, when joining the Dark Side, all SpongeBob Squarepants DVDs are required to be surrendered

If one embraces the Light Side, one must dress all in white (not a flattering color if you live on a planet with two suns), wear elastic bandages on one's legs instead of boots, whine a lot and always act surprised when someone from The Dark Side attacks.

Anyway, I have decided that perhaps I could use The Force thingy for my own purposes. I mean, how hard can it be? You simply stare at your target, concentrate on what you want to happen, squint a bit, and stuff happens, right?

I figured I'd test my new powers on Tiger Lily first. I found her sitting on the back of the couch. She was, of course, in "my spot" (all spots belong to me, but that is irrelevant). I decided that I would use The Force to make her move. I jumped up in front of her and before I could even squint, she jumped up with a harsh whine and fled to the computer room.

It seems that The Force is strong in me.

Perhaps Jaq may prove a more worthy test. I found her sleeping in an empty beer case. I softly crept up to her nap nook. I concentrated on making her vacate the box........I squinted aggressively........I spoke softly in a deep baritone voice.........I breathed roughly..............I smacked the box.

Success!! She sprung from the box and ran from the room.

It was about this time that Ivan came lumbering into the kitchen. I considered using The Force to make him hungry, but quickly remembered that Ivan is ALWAYS hungry and therefore not worthy of the attempt. Instead, I decided to plant in his mind a suggestion of the Christmas tree infested with mouse thingies. Once again, I concentrated....I squinted....I formed the idea and shot it across the kitchen hitting him square in the ear. The suggestion disappeared into his ear, rattled around a bit and then kinda oozed out of the other ear.

It seems that in order for a suggestion to take seed, it has to have something to adhere to. Obviously, the ground within Ivan's mind is infertile.

Oh well, I shall continue to hone my Jedi skills.

In the meantime, I leave you with the Jedi motto: "Live long and use The Force in a prosperous manner".  

The Case of The Curious Canine Clan

 My Outer Kingdom has been invaded.

Over the last week, I bore witness to no fewer than four dog thingies running and cavorting through my front yard.

Obviously, this does not amuse me.

That being said, I am also aware that my options for putting a stop to their incursions are somewhat limited. I could command Sheba (the feral I hired to annoy the squirrel thingy) to confront the dog thingies, but given the four-to-one odds, that would be ill-advised. I have already made the two leggers aware of the trespassers and they have had some success in chasing the dog thingies away, but that success is temporary at best and as soon as the two leggers leave for work, the mutts return.

So for the moment, I have decided to observe.........and plot.

The dog thingies seem to belong to some two leggers who are staying at the neighboring house. The smallest of them appears to be their leader. Judging by his small stature he is obviously a chihuahua/field mouse hybrid. He is always in the company of a large, male german shepherd who though large, seems to be mentally challenged and unable to function without direction from the tiny beast. There is also a mid-sized, female poodledog that is in a state of constant complaint. The fourth member of the poochy party was a female irish setter.

I sat watching the canine crowd as they cavorted through the trees, romping, playing and befouling my yard with impunity. After several hours of this, I could take no more. Smacking on the bay window, I managed to attract the attention of their leader.

"Wut de ye want?" he yapped.

"I want you to leave my yard post-haste" I replied.

"Aye, I figured as mooch, boot me an me clan, dun wanna leeve jist yet, ye ken?"

"Wait a sec, you're a chihuahua, aren't you supposed to be from Mexico?" I asked.

"Oooooh sure, profiling me are ye? As a matter oov fact, I am oonly a chihuahua on me Da's side. Me dear ol Mum was a scottish wolfhound. Me Da wuz wee, boot ambitious. Me name is Angus McTavish Martinez and I'll noot stand fer any oov yer guff, ye ken?"

Letting that stand for a moment, I decided to learn more about his "clan".

"Weel, dat big german shepherd over dere is called Caligula. He hails froom  Paris. He's a wee bit thick in his noggin, boot he kinna be be stooped once he gets his dander oop.  Dat french poodle wut's always complainin, she's froom Germany. Her name be Lion Pansy. She is moostly useless, we mainly keep her aroond in case we ever get loost an needta resort to cannibalism. Finally, dat irish setter over dere is Steve. I dunno why her name is Steve, boot she hails froom India. She's a wee bit daft inner heed, tends to keep herself to herself and has an odd habit oov suddenly singing Irish drinking songs."

Against my better judgement and professional bias against all dog thingies, for some reason I found myself warming up to this little band of butt sniffers. Despite the fact that they were dog thingies, there was something about them I just couldn't put my paw on, that somehow appealed to me. Perhaps, they could even be useful.

"Well, since you're here, would you mind doing me a great service?" I asked.

"Suuure, if ye poot it dat way, I might be amenable." 

"Well, you see, there is a squirrel thingy out there that annoys me on a daily basis. If you could see yourself fit to eradicate him, I would be very grateful".

"Nae laddie, dis I kinna do. I'd be appy tae chase 'im around a bit, boot I willna keel him." 
 
"Why on earth not?" I asked.

"Weel, when I woz just a wee bairn, I wozz veery proudt of meself after having keeled meself one of the tree-dwellin vermin. When me dear ol Mum found out woot I had doon, she whipped my bahookie and called me a grit gabberlunzie. Ye see, in the oold country, skwurls are considered beneficial and therefore sackred".

"How could squirrel things possibly be considered beneficial?!?"

"Aye, I thot ye maybbe curious aboot dat. Ye see, skwirls are goot fer keepin da nut population doon. So oover in Scotland, we line em oop on da suttern border and dey keep da British oot."

I found myself completely unable to refute his logic.

Angus was true to his word and for the next several days, Angus and Company generally made the squirrel's life hell.

This morning, the neighbor's guests packed up and went on their merry way. I must confess, I may even miss Angus and his Clan. They provided many hours of amusement. And whenever the male two legger steps in one of their leavings, I amused even more.

I just wish I could figure out who they remind me of.....