As bad days go, today is rapidly beginning to shape up to be an award winner.  If it could go wrong, it has.  If there was a wrong place to be, I was there.  It’s almost enough to make me think that today is ‘Day of the Dog’ or something equally ludicrous (I mean, why, pray tell, would canines be worthy of a day in their honour?  I think not.).

Part of me thinks that I may be scarred for life by what I’ve had the misfortune to experience.

The other part of me simply thinks that it is starving to death.  This part also thinks that if Chris isn’t home soon then I am simply going to waste away to nothing and that I hope he can live with this on his conscience.

Prowling around the house, I try to keep my mind off the horrific spectacle I witnessed.  Really, as far as I’m concerned, humans that look like our neighbours do should be made to keep their clothes on.  To remove them should be punishable by death - or at the very least by making them watch Jim Carey movies until their minds turn to mush.

Hang on...  That would imply that they had a mind to turn to mush...  I take it back.  One has to be cruel to be kind and I think death is really the only viable option.

It honestly wasn’t my fault.  If I’d had any inkling of what was happening then I would never have bothered, hunger or no hunger.  Mind you, I’ll say one thing for encountering Mr and Mrs Fat Cow (as nicknamed by Chris) engaging in... aaah... ‘carnal relations’; it certainly made me momentarily lose my appetite.

Two large, naked, bodies with varying degrees of fur, (and I’m disgusted to report that he only *just* beat her in this department) humping away at each other like there’s no tomorrow, is not exactly something I expect to see in a kitchen.

I went visiting in search of food.  I most definitely did not jump through their window looking for fresh fodder for my nightmares.

Why they’d even want to see each other naked is beyond me.  I swear I’ll never truly understand humans.  Not even if I live to be a hundred.

Mr and Mrs Fat Cow  (otherwise known as the Obese Bovines, as re-nicknamed by Sam) were not pleased to see me.  Especially seeing as I decided to get their attention by stretching out a paw and sticking my claws in the back of his knee...

Apparently I put him off his stroke...

... And he lost what she’d been waiting, "All fucking year for."

Needless to say, they went ballistic.  I can now say, with all truthfulness, that having tins of cat food hurled at me is not a pleasant experience.  Nor is having, "That’s the last time I ever agree to feed that wanker’s stupid cat!" screeched in my general direction, at a volume that would be worthy of a spruiker, overly wonderful.

Once safely outside, I shared a few home truths with them.  I informed them in great detail that they were, quite frankly, the most revolting creatures I had ever seen, that I wasn’t stupid and how dare they even imply such a thing.  A tin of baked beans flying in my general direction then stopped me before I could stand up for Chris.  He’s not a wanker.  He has Sam for that purpose.

Personally, I think the whole family is mentally deranged.  I’ve already planned my revenge though.  Once I’d recovered my equilibrium I went and saw my friend, Charlie the Cemetery Cat, and arranged for him to release a couple of half-dead rats into their hallway.

That’ll show ‘em they can’t mess with a Siamese.

I only hope I live long enough to witness this victory.  My hunger, which deserted me upon encountering the vision of sexual hell next door, is back with a vengeance.  I swear to the Goddess that I don’t think I have ever been this hungry.  The bowl of dry-food I ate this morning feels like it was a decade ago.

My favourite place to nap, the top of the stereo, seems so high up and far away that it may as well be Mount Everest.  In my mind, I’m too weak to make it up there, and, have no choice but to collapse on the floor beneath it.

Feeling immensely miserable, I fall asleep and have a surprisingly pleasant dream.  I dream I am being given a guided tour of a cat-food factory and, on a conveyor belt, heading towards a mincing machine, are Mr and Mrs Fat Cow.  I lick my lips in anticipation as I sit at the other end of the machine, thinking that this by far beats merely letting rats loose in their house.

My dream is so engrossing that I’m not even aware that there are people in the house until a flat foot steps on my tail.  Immediately my eyes fly open and I wail, a general indignant curse to whomever the moron is.

The shock of getting my tail squashed helps push me over the weakness-through-starvation feeling, and I jump on the sofa before focusing on the scene around me.

First things first, there’s Chris.  He’s standing near the dining table, looking, as usual after one of his prolonged absences, like death warmed up.  There are times when I think he must have an aura of ‘hit me’ that is only visible to those of the ‘violence-for-the-sake-of-it’ echelon.  What other reason could there be for Chris always coming home bruised and next to nothing ever happening to Sam?

Sam!

Yep.  Bulls-eye.  There he is.  Looking fine and standing bang on the spot where my tail had been.

Bastard!  I wail a bit louder and wait for the sympathy that has to be forthcoming.

To my utter disgust, none is, and only when I pause for breath in my diatribe do I notice the reason for this.  They both have that glazed expression on their faces that I have come to associate with the shut bedroom door.

Great.  I’m starving for food and they’re starving for each other.  I don’t really know why this surprises me.  You’d think they get to see enough of each other, but, oh-no, what ever goes on in the bedroom seems to be just the ultimate.

"Come on, Chris.  After all that time roughing it I’m just dying to get you into bed."

"Mmm..."  Grinning like a lunatic, Chris starts to walk slowly towards Sam.  As he passes me, I cry petulantly and he stops.  "Um, perhaps I’d better feed Mishy first.  She looks hungry."

Good boy!  Jumping off the sofa, I entwine myself around Chris’ legs and purr happily.

"Forget Mishy, she can wait.  I can’t..."

Excuse me?  Sam, you are really not thrilling me at the moment.

"But..."

"But *nothing*.  Come ‘ere, I want you..."

Chris falters, and I am about to draw on my fallback, never-fails, plan of sticking my claws in his ankle to reiterate my point, when suddenly, out of nowhere, a leather jacket flies through the air and lands on me.

The last thing I hear from my dark tent before the ‘clunk’ of the bedroom door shutting, is Chris telling Sam, with a laugh, that I’m not going to be very impressed with him.

Damn right I’m not very impressed with him!

For a moment I just huddle under the jacket and sulk.  Feeling generous towards Chris, as he *had* been going to feed me, I can just about forgive him for his lack of willpower and not knowing where his priorities lie.

Sam, on the other hand, has just claimed the number one spot in my ever-changing hate-list.  How *dare* he drag Chris away from me...

Clambering out from under the jacket, I sit on it and try to knead the leather.  I know from past experiences that I can’t really do any damage to it -- which, seeing as it’s Sam’s, is a pity -- but continue to do it anyway.  It helps me think.

I desperately want to get back at Sam, but can’t, for the life of me, think of anything immediate that I can do.  My preferred ‘you’ve- pissed-me-off-and-now-you-have-to-pay’ routine is to knock things off shelves and, seeing as it isn’t Chris I’m ticked off with,  this isn’t going to work in this instance.

For the extreme want of anything better to do, I wander over to the bedroom door and  start to serenade Sam.  It’s a shame that Chris has to hear me too, but, what else can I do?

For his listening pleasure -- and I have never sang so loudly before -- I choose a medley of misery and depression that I source from Little Miss Goth’s (black-clad, morose looking offspring of the Bovine’s) CD collection.  Hate, disgust, the-world-is-against-me, helplessness, you name it, anything less than chirpy I can think of.

Unfortunately, the Goddess-awful racket that I’m making means I can’t even hear whether I am making any impact in the bedroom or not. My throat begins to hurt and I finish on a burst of Nine Inch Nails, ‘Head Like A Hole’.  Concert over, I stretch out, like a carpet snake, along the door and slip into a light snooze.  Not having finished with Sam yet, I need all the energy I can muster.

I wake, after an undisclosed amount of time, to the sound of footsteps coming towards the door.  Getting out of the way just in time, I watch through slitted eyes as Sam stumbles towards the bathroom.  Possibilities fly through my mind.  The basest of these is simply to throw myself at his legs and see how much damage I can do, but I feel that is rather unimaginative and a little below my usual standard.  Not that he wouldn’t deserve it though...

Instead, I decide to enter the bedroom.  Most of the bedding is strewn all over the floor and the air is heavy with the dusky scent of sweat and something else that I can’t quite place.  Lightly hopping up onto the bed, I note that this unknown scent seems to be emanating from the sheets.

Chris is asleep on his stomach and his lower body is half covered by the top sheet.  The urge to stand on his shoulders and simply lick the nape of his neck, just to see what sort of reaction I’d get, is nearly overwhelming.  Fortunately, for Chris, I then remember that he isn’t the one I’m currently playing with.

Walking softly over the bed, I put my paw in a damp patch on the sheet; the substance seems to cling to me.  Blaming Sam for this, as well as everything else, I limp, keeping the offending paw in the air, up to the top of the bed and wipe the substance on his pillow.

I’m still contemplating my next plan of action when I hear Sam coming back.

Shit!

Now what?

In desperation, I wriggle under the sheet, head down to the foot of the bed and lie, as close as is possible without actually touching, next to Chris’ ankle.

Offering a prayer to the Goddess that Sam *doesn’t* decide to get into bed and roll, effectively trapping me, immediately onto Chris, I hold my breath and wait.

To my extreme relief, Sam merely gets onto the bed, pulls the sheet a little over him, throws one arm casually over Chris’ back and settles down to sleep.

From my position, his ankles and shins beckon to me tantalisingly, and, delusional images of sticking my scythe-like talons (yeah, I *wish*) into his flesh, flicker through my mind and make my whiskers twitch.

Strangely, I find that I am quite comfortable in my precarious position and, if not for the fact that I abruptly recall how hungry I am, could probably have settled on forgiving Sam.

My stomach, however, grumbles and I suddenly know what I want to do.

Once I’m convinced that Sam is asleep, I make my way carefully between the two bodies and, as lightly as only a Siamese can, walk onto Sam’s chest.  He shifts a little in response but doesn’t wake.  Sweet revenge sings to me as I gingerly saunter up his body until I reach his collarbone.  I then, quite gently, nip the tip of his nose between my teeth and wail, "*Feed me*!"

Gratifyingly, Sam comes awake with a most unmanly scream.  From his expression, he looks mightily less than impressed.

Touché!

Not having much choice in the matter, Chris wakes as well, and grumbles as he rolls over.  "What on earth is the matter with you?"

"Your cat!  Your blasted cat that is sitting on me, looking as though butter wouldn’t melt, is what is the matter!  She bit me!"

Chris yawns before grinning at me.  "I told you she wouldn’t be very happy with you.  Now, what’s say you feed her and then we’ll all be happy."

Sam scowls at me.  "I’d like to feed her to a Rott..."

"Sam!"

"Yeah, yeah...  Fine.  Remind me never to wrong a Siamese again."  Sam carefully picks me up and clambers off the bed as Chris yawns again and settles back down with a laugh.  "I could have told you that."

Sam, having learnt his lesson, carries me out to the kitchen and makes a performance of feeding me.  He seems to think that by presenting me with a smorgasbord of food, that he is, in fact, playing mind games with me.

I find the whole, ‘you wanted food, well, here’s more than you can poke a stick at,’ mentality quite amusing.  Poor, silly boy.  I would have thought that by now he would well and truly be aware that beating a cat at mind games is an impossibility.

He seems content when I have six different plates of food on the floor in front of me and, heading back to the bedroom, mutters, "Bon appetit," sarcastically at me as he leaves.

For a split second I contemplate leaving the food, bolting in front of Sam, and beating him to the bed.  I know that would send him absolutely ballistic, but then my stomach grumbles again and I reluctantly sit down and start to eat.

Half a plate later, I’m full and, in a manic phase to celebrate my victory over Sam, I run around the living room like an imbecile for a couple of minutes.  After a couple of laps, I jump nimbly on top of the stereo and settle down to sleep.  My last conscious thought is how happy I am that Chris is finally home and, seeing as my meal-ticket next door is less than fond of me, how I hope he stays for a long time.

And, yeah, food or no food, how pleased I am to see him...  Life just isn’t the same when he and Sam aren’t around.