Purring happily to myself, I sit on top of the stereo and think quite contentedly that life is *good*.

I’m having a good day.

Although it is currently absolutely bucketing down with rain, the morning was an exemplary example of a perfect spring day.  The sun was shining, the birds were singing and blah, blah, blah…

The great outdoors had called to me and, not being one to deny the call of nature, I’d obeyed and subsequently spent a pleasant time strolling around my domain.

I was meandering tentatively - for the Goddess alone knows what I could encounter there - around the Fat Cows’ hovel when, for reasons quite unknown, a ping-pong ball (in their front yard - go figure…) suddenly offended me mightily.  Needless to say, it positively screamed a request for death of me…

Throwing myself whole-heartedly into the task at paw, I bolted for the ping-pong ball and proceeded to biff it into submission.

It put up a good fight.

It even tried to escape.

I watched, tail switching, as it made its bid for freedom and rolled away from me.  My entire attention was focussed on the poor, unfortunate ping-pong ball.  I waited until I was confident that it thought it was safe, and then I went for it.

Springing up from my position, I ran for it and, not knowing she’d lumbered onto the scene, skittered in front of Mrs Fat Cow and caused her to come crashing down.

It was like watching King-Kong fall off the Empire State Building.

Splat!

Braking and turning around, ping-pong ball forgotten, I watched with undisguised glee as she hit the path.  To my immense dissatisfaction, the shopping bags in her hands cushioned her fall somewhat as she landed on them.

Mind you, with breasts like that, if the bags hadn’t been there then I suspect she would have simply *bounced* straight back up again.

Whatever was in the bag cracked and broke and she wailed like a particularly disgruntled banshee.  "Goddamn fucking spawn of Satan!"

Impressive.

I’d been called a lot of things before, but never anything quite so grand.

She rolled off the bags and did an exceptionally good impression of a beached whale.  I watched the slow and laborious way she tried to clamber off the ground until she’d almost achieved her aim.  Self-preservation then kicked in and I made for home.  A packet of frozen fish-fingers was hurled in my direction but thankfully missed me entirely.

Not really wanting to push my luck, I’ve been inside since then.  Not that I mind in the slightest.  I’d barely managed to burrow myself under the duvet on Chris’ bed - unmade, as *usual* - before it started to rain.  The rain thudded on the roof and lulled me into a blissful sleep.  The bed smelt of both Chris and Sam (surprise, surprise) and this, combined with the warmth and the sound of the rain, meant that I was able to forget the horror of the Obese Bovine’s and slept dreamlessly.

Most of the afternoon was taken up by this wonderful activity.  Eventually, a pressing need for food roused me and I reluctantly clambered out of my cocoon and headed towards my bowl.

Since eating, I’ve been sitting on the stereo and simply watching the rain as it drenches the cemetery.  Although it’s raining, the sun is still shining and everything looks clean and bright.  Droplets of rain cling to the plants and everything glistens in the sun.

I feel that all is right with the world and continue purring.

The sound of a key in the front door further reiterates this feeling.

Chris is home!

Wonderful.

Not wanting to appear overly enthusiastic, I wait until he’s muttered - something about supermarkets being the ultimate way to kill all good will - his way up the stairs before hopping off the stereo and heading towards him.

// Greetings!  Got enough plastic bags there? //

I honestly don’t think I’ve ever seen so many Safeway bags in my life before.

The bags get thrown unceremoniously on top of the dining table and Chris bends down to greet me.  "Hello, Mishy.  I hope your day’s been better than mine."

After allowing him to pat me for a few moments, I bound up on to the dining table and proceed to tell him in great detail about my escapade with Mrs Fat Cow.

"Okay, okay…  Enough already!" he laughs as he begins to slowly empty the bag’s contents into the kitchen cupboards.  I always enjoy watching Chris manoeuvre his way through this activity as he has to *think* about it and force himself to quash his natural desire to simply shove everything into the first cupboard he comes to.

I watch with interest as a jar with a label that states ‘Chocolate Body Paint’ is cheerfully taken into the bedroom as opposed to the kitchen. Nosing around in the bag that it came from, I smell something intoxicatingly sweet and curiosity dictates that I have to investigate.  Hooking my paw into the bag, I ferret around until I feel something that appears to be open, and pull it out.

Sure enough, the strange looking foil wrapper (yeah, yeah, Happy Easter to you too…) houses the scent’s origin and I can’t help but lick whatever it is that is exposed.

Oh!

Nice.

Throwing caution to the winds, I push more of the foil back and nibble delicately at the sweet substance.

An expletive heralds Chris’ arrival back from the bedroom.  Reaching me, he sighs.  "I had actually got you some steak for your Easter present, but, hey, if you’d prefer chocolate then go for it.  Just please get off the table before Sam arrives.  You know it pushes his buttons."

Reluctantly tearing my attention away from the… chocolate (so, that’s what it tastes like…  I feel as though I’ve been deprived of something quite remarkable…), I inform Chris that Sam can go and get stuffed as he, unlike I, doesn’t live here (*yet*) and that I’ll do whatever the hell it is that I want, before going back to eating.

Having been told, Chris sighs again and continues putting things away until it is only me and my chocolate left on the table.  I’m beginning to feel vaguely ill, but, as I feel compelled (*possessed*) to finish what I’ve started, ignore this feeling and keep eating.

By the time I’ve finished, I feel *real* sick…  Not only that, but I also feel… *funny*…

I’m trying desperately to pinpoint my exact malaise when the doorbell chimes and the annoyingly chirpy sound of it causes my stomach to churn.

// Oh!  Make it stop!  I feel like shit. //

I almost fall off the table in my haste to find somewhere to throw up. Making an effort, I manage to deduce that the front door - that Chris is bounding towards with a silly looking grin on his face - is closer than my cat door and, praying to the Goddess that I make it, I sprint after him.

Nearly tripping Chris over as he jogs down the stairs, I beat him to the door and wail.

// Get a *move* on! //

"Sheesh, give me a minute," he mutters, opening the door and beaming at - well, I *never* - Sam.

I try and scramble past Sam, but - for reasons best known to himself - he appears to be indulging in a spectacular piece of flat-footedness and I can’t get around him.

My vision blurs as I wearily give up.

// Sorry! //

Not being able to control myself any more, I throw up all over Sam’s shoes.

// Oh, ack! //

Mind you, if I’m feeling ill then I suspect the feeling goes double for Sam. His mouth moves up and down but only a few funny little squeaky noises come out.

Chris however, obviously having a death wish, laughs.  "Oh dear…"

"Oh *dear*?  That is all you can say?  Your feral feline just threw up on my shoes, and all you have to offer is, ‘oh dear’?"  Needless to say, Sam is speaking through clenched teeth.

I wobble a little unsteadily on my feet.

// Stop bickering and make this feeling *stop*! //

Chris makes to bend down, but the mess I’ve made makes him think better of it and he straightens back up.  "She must be sick…"

// No shit, Chris…  Watch out Einstein, here he comes… //

"Really?  You think so?"

// Anyone told you lately, Sam, that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit? //

Deciding that I have to get away from them (before they sap my intelligence), I wander slowly out the door.  The rain hitting me as I make it from under the doorway doesn’t so much as make me feel better as it does send me *crazy*...

The last thing I hear as I bolt towards the fence is Chris telling Sam to grab me as he doesn’t think it’s a good idea for me to be outside.  I’m moving so fast by this stage that Sam doesn’t have a hope in hell of catching me, and I’m on the Fat Cow’s roof before they’ve even made it outside.

Perching precariously on the guttering, I wonder briefly what exactly it is that I think I’m doing, but can’t come up with any acceptable reasoning. All I know is that I swear I’m never going to eat any more chocolate for as long as I live.

I blame the chocolate entirely for the fact that I’m sitting on my arch nemesis’ roof in the pouring rain feeling as though a vapid entity has taken up residence in my body.

Quite frankly, I wouldn’t have the foggiest as to why I’m doing what I’m doing.

Maybe this is what hallucinating feels like…

I watch dully as Chris and Sam hold a conference in the doorway.  It doesn’t take a mental genius to realise that whilst Chris wants to come and get ml; I could drown in the guttering for all Sam cares.  It only takes one pout from Chris for him to win, and Sam begrudgingly follows him out into the rain.

I wonder idly whether I could fly as they clamber over the fence and make their way to stand under me.

Rain plasters Sam’s hair to his skull and miserable doesn’t begin to do justice to the way he looks.  Chris’ hair merely sticks up more and water drips in his eyes as he looks up and pleads for me to get down.

"Come on, Mishy.  Get down from there.  You’ll feel better inside."

// Maybe, maybe not.  You want me, come and get me. //

"Oh, just leave her.  She’s obviously happy up there."

// You really have *no* idea, do you Sam? //

"I’m not leaving her up there.  Who knows what the *inhabitants* of this month’s feature presentation in ‘Slum Digest’ might do to her if they got her…  They’d probably eat her…"

"And only you think this is a bad thing…"

"*Sam*!"

I’m contemplating using Sam to cushion my free-fall to the ground when the front door suddenly opens.

// Oh-oh… //

Mrs Fat Cow, a vision in her *lounging* outfit of a parachute silk tracksuit and slippers, appears in all her glory.  Instinct alone causes Chris to back a little away from the door.

"Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing on my property?"  As usual, the words come out of her mouth far louder than is really needed.

// What does it fucking look like?  They’re prospecting for gold, can’t you see? //

"Um…"  Chris makes an effort.  "My cat’s on your roof and I’m trying to get her down."

Mrs Fat Cow peers up at me before quickly retreating back to the dry security of her doorway.  "Your fucking cat needs a bullet.  Do you want to hear what she did to me…"

Sam, sensing that Chris is beginning to twitch in temper, interrupts. "Look, we’re really not interested in what she may or may not have done to you.  We just want to get her down and then we’ll - more than happily - leave your property."

"I’ll fucking get her down for ya!"

// Really, is ‘fuck’ an imperative part of every comment to issue forth from your mouth?  Nasty old troll… //

Staggering as fast as her podgy legs will carry her, she shoves through Chris and Sam and picks up the hose.

"Oh, no you don’t!"  Chris tries to stop her, but it’s too late.  The high-powered hose (used for getting grease stains from old car wrecks off the path) is pointed in my direction and the stream of water propels me off the roof.

Chris makes a grab for the hose as I come careening towards the ground, but this only further infuriates her and she turns it in Sam’s direction. Fortunately for him (or Mrs Fat Cow, depending on how you look at it…), he’d had enough forethought to move around her and was already turning off the hose at the tap.  "Nice try," he sneers.

The water peters out as I land, all four paws down, on the grass.  Not wanting to hang around, I force myself to take off in the direction of home and to get as far away from this spectacle as possible.

Chris, however, has other ideas and he lunges for me.  "Come ‘ere!"  He manages to grab me, but seeing as this necessitated landing in a mud-bath, I doubt whether he thinks it was worth the effort.

Mrs Fat Cow starts to laugh like a flock of crows.  Her multiple chins wobble and tears of laughter appear in her eyes.  I can hear Chris grinding his teeth as he slowly drags himself off the ground, never once loosening his grip on me, and glares at her.  "Shut up!" he hisses through a mouthful of mud, "It isn’t that bloody funny."

"It is from where I’m standing," she snorts and clutches at her sides.

It’s a good job that Chris is focussing, his eyes narrow slits,  entirely on Mrs Fat Cow and can’t see the smirk crossing Sam’s face as I really don’t think he’d appreciate it.

Chris clutches me to his exceptionally muddy jumper and begins to stalk towards the gate.  Sam dutifully follows.  "Happy Easter," he offers blandly as he passes the huge (literally) waste of space that is Mrs Fat Cow.

Never being one to indulge in pleasantries, she ignores Sam’s seasonal greeting.  "Shove it up your arse.  Oh, hang on…"  She pauses and attempts to glower triumphantly.  "That’s what *he’s* for…"

Thankfully Chris is too busy trying to wipe his mouth clear of mud with his free hand to hear this.  Subsequently it’s up to Sam to react accordingly to this slur and he does so with aplomb.  "Madam, I’d say ‘get fucked’, but seeing as I suspect that would be a triumph of hope - on your behalf - over experience, I shall just have to settle on telling you to *fuck off*!"

With that, Mrs Fat Cow’s mouth hangs limply open and Sam strides over to Chris.

// Well done! //

That’s what I like about Sam, the way he can force politeness under duress. It’s a true skill and one that my American house-mate just can’t seem to get a hang of.

Mrs Fat Cows lurches inside and slams her door so hard that it sounds like a clap of thunder.

We all watch this in somewhat stunned silence.

Chris is the first to speak.  "Stupid bitch."

Sam usually tells him not to be so harsh, but not today.  "I think you’re right.  She deserves a bullet."

// Ask me!  She deserves more than *one* bullet.  In my opinion she needs to be pumped so full of lead that they could use her skin as a colander. //

My comment draws Chris’ attention to the fact that I’m basically - oh, okay, *entirely* - to blame for his current state and he tries to glower at me. "Thank you *so* much for that entertainment, Mishy…  I thought my day couldn’t get much worse after the supermarket trip from hell, but, hey, it looks like I was wrong…"

// Um…  Sorry…  In case you’re interested, I’m feeling a lot better now… //

I don’t push my luck though and lick some of the mud off Chris’ neck in a pitiful attempt to apologise.  He squirms and holds me a little further away from him.  "Ah…  It’s okay.  I think I’ll just have a shower.  Thanks all the same."

// Hmph!  You like it when Sam does it… //

We reach the front door and go inside.  "Did you say something about a shower," Sam asks hopefully.

"Mmm…" Chris grins as he carries me up the stairs.  "If you’re lucky I’ll even let you share it with me…"

"You’re too kind."

Chris places me on the floor of the kitchen and roughly dries me off with a tea-towel as Sam wanders in the direction of the bathroom.

// Oi! Gentle!  Just because I feel mildly sorry for causing your current state, doesn’t mean that I *won’t* stick my claw in your wrist. //

"Yeah, yeah, tell someone who actually *cares*," he smirks at me.

// You’re lucky I can tell you’re joking… //

All the mud’s off me and I’m half-dry before Chris loses interest.  Well, actually, I wouldn’t go so far as to say he loses interest, it’s just that his willpower is somewhat weak and the sound of Sam calling him from the bathroom *immediately* becomes more compelling than drying me.

"There!"  I’m released from the towel as Chris gets off the floor and squishes his way towards the bathroom.  "Now, *please* behave yourself.  I’ve just about had all the fun I can handle for one day."

// Oh yeah?  Then why could I see a happy looking grin under all the mud as you heard Sam call you? //

Not that I care.  I think they deserve a treat after having had the misfortune of encountering Mrs Fat Cow on her home turf.  And, if they derive said treat out of each other as opposed to a bottle of Gliver, then who am I complain?

I’d hazard a guess that at least an hour passes before they drag themselves out of the bathroom, looking incredibly clean and pleased with their activities.  I also indulged in self-grooming during this time, but I doubt I quite have the same *sated* look about me as they do.

Chris sinks down on the sofa as Sam heads into the kitchen to make coffee. I immediately jump up onto his lap and he pats me absent-mindedly as I settle down.  Sam, reappearing from the kitchen, places two cups of coffee on the coffee table before sitting down next to Chris.  "There appeared to be a hell of a lot of chocolate in the kitchen, do you want some?"

Chocolate!

I involuntarily stick my claw into Chris’ denim clad thigh.

// Please say no!  I don’t even want to smell the stuff! //

"Er…  No…  I don’t think so.  I’ve kinda lost my appetite for it at the moment."

I breathe a huge sigh of relief and prepare to go to sleep as Chris leans towards Sam.  He waits until Sam brings his free arm around him before settling comfortably.

Yet again, misadventures aside, I feel that all is right with the world and start to purr.