~Jojo~

There's something unnerving about having a staring contest with a human at four o'clock in the morning. Well, unnerving for him, anyway. Bloodshot, bleary, squinting, round blue eyes meet mine from an equal level and I glare at him steadily, half in a strop because he disturbed a perfectly good cat nap that I badly need these days, and half captivated by the slow dawning comprehension on his face that he's eyeball to eyeball with a cat.

And I would guess that in his position, being on an eyelevel with a cat is not something he would normally expect.

Tough noogies.

Now, when Chris is fully awake, he's pretty smart for a human, but right now he's really not the sharpest kitten in the litter. He looks at me sideways, looks down at the floor, opens his mouth, shuts it again and settles for just blinking at me.

I want to go back to sleep, so I glare harder in my efforts to get him to finish up and go.

I'm sick, so I'll sleep where I damned well like.

According to the vet person (the nice one who thinks I'm handsome) I have siss – um, styst – scys – um, well, anyway I keep having to *go*. A lot. And I don't have a lot of notice, either. And it smells. A lot. And I hate it. With a passion that eclipses food, rodents, this stupid poxy demon flea collar that Sam decided to shove round my neck and even the Princess.

Damn.

I must be sick.

He's glaring at *me* now. I'm not in the mood to play, and there's no way he's gonna win.

I glare harder.

// If it bothers you that much, I could always take up residence in the bedroom or lounge. Think what my illness would do to your nice wood floor and rugs, not to mention the bed.//

Bingo. I win, and his head drops into his hands where he rubs his eyes with a sigh before looking back at me.

I'm still here.

I'm still in the bathroom.

I'm still in the sink.

I'm staying in the sink.

It's comfortable in the sink.

I don't have far to go.

// You want to use the sink now? Go to hell. I'm sick. //

I curl up, bury my nose in my tail and close my eyes with the biggest snort I can muster.

Ack! I'm not in the sink anymore! Git!

He washes, he flushes, he switches the light off and goes back to bed.

I contemplate going back to the sink.

I really need to go.

And well…

It's not as comfortable as the sink.

But I'm here in the tub.

I'm staying here in the tub.

And if anyone wants a shower in the morning, they'll be rapidly and intimately acquainted with my teeth and claws. And do I have to mention violently?

*****

~Mishy~

Opening my eyes blearily, I watch, unimpressed, as Chris staggers out of the bedroom. Inconsiderate human. How dare he interrupt a) my comfortable position perched on his hip and b) my dream by having the nerve to get out of bed. There's no help for it. It's really not good enough. And it was such a brilliant dream too. Right up there with the one about cats being the *recognised* rulers of the world.

A mini tornado, a very well contained mini-tornado, had hit the House of Fat Cow. Not a single wall of their hovel was still standing and their scungy belongings were spread *everywhere*. Union Jack duvet cover half up a tree, disgusting piece of lace -- that wouldn't even have covered *one* of the nasty troll's breasts -- hanging off an angel shaped tombstone and, my favourite, their combined pornography collection spread all over the cemetery.

Talk about loving every minute of what I was lucky enough to be witness to. It was great. I'd even go so far as to call it divine retribution for every single wrong doing, their crimes against fashion and good taste – just about you name it and they've wronged it somehow -- they'd committed. Unfortunately, and this is where my subconscious lets me down a little, they weren't inside their hovel at the time. Now that would have *really* been the icing on the cake. Still, to my delight, as I sat on the fence and thought happy thoughts, I could see their car coming up the road and was readying myself for the immense joy of watching their flabby faces fall as they encountered what was left of their home. My whiskers were literally trembling with anticipation; I was *that* excited.

Then...

Then Chris just *has* to go and get up. He couldn't have waited a few minutes longer? What was the damn rush? Hell, if the kitty-litter hasn't been cleaned to my satisfaction I can hold on for *hours*. But no, apparently when a man's gotta go, he's *really* gotta go.

For a moment I wonder idly whether I should be concerned or not. I mean, what if Jojo's given him what he's got? Wouldn't be very nice. In fact it'd be even worse than merely biting the hand that feeds you. But... Nah... I don't think it's possible. Then again, I'd have thought that cystitis was feminine disease anyway. Heh... I'm still not over teasing Jojo about that. I asked him yesterday if he was suffering from PMT as well and, honestly, I thought he was going to go ballistic. How was I supposed to know your sense of humour goes AWOL when you're on antibiotics? Sheesh. It's not my fault he's so prone to disease.

Actually, the sooner he gets better the... ah... better. I can't handle the smell. While I never thought I'd say it, I think I even prefer that feral penchant he has for *marking* things -- which he incorrectly assumes are his -- than this stench. My delicate nose can't cope with it very well. Truth be told though, I don't quite know what's worse, Jojo or Sam. Not, I hasten to add, that Sam's experiencing any difficulties with his bladder. It's more that this is bringing the worst of his retentive neat streak out in him.

Where ever there's a puddle, there's Sam. And where ever there's Sam, there's disinfectant. There is also Chris... who appears to be allergic to the disinfectant. Cleaning products aren't his cup of tea under normal circumstances, but the disinfectant seems to be having a really bad impact on him. Even worse than the toilet cleaner. Sneeze, snuffle, sneeze, sniff, he goes. His eyes are all red and watery too. Poor dear, I think he's almost as miserable as Jojo is. Sam appears to be oblivious to this. All Mr Hygiene cares about is wielding the disinfectant around like a man possessed.

Still lamenting missing the Fat Cow's dismay at the wonderful natural disaster that hit their slum in my dream, I stand up and stretch. Where's Chris? First he ruins my sleep and now, thanks to his absence, I'm getting cold. If I wasn't so sleepy I'd give him a piece of my mind when he finally deigns to return. Luckily for him I just want to feel warm and go back to sleep or I'd really let him have it.

Sam, no doubt disinfected out, is still fast asleep. While he's as warm as Chris is, sleeping on him isn't really worth the effort. Not only does he keep attempting to move me, but I also think it upsets his delicate mental state. Go figure. I swear he thinks I'm out to suffocate him or something like that. Why he can't be as accommodating as Chris -- sit where you like, do what you want -- is beyond me. Surely he'd be happier being less uptight about things.

Finishing my stretch, I wander a little up the mattress and settle myself on the still warm patch that is Chris' side of the bed. Mmmmm... Nice. Much better than the cold cotton of the duvet cover. Maybe I'll stay here and he can arrange himself around me when he returns. It works for me.

I'm still congratulating myself on this plan when, suddenly, an earthquake erupts next to me. Oh my Goddess!

// Sammy! I didn't know you cared! //

If he thinks he's cuddling Chris then he's going to be *very* sadly mistaken.

// Er... You're caring just a *tad* too much... //

Help. I'm being suffocated. Perhaps he's getting his own back? Either that or all that disinfectant has done more damage to him than I first imagined.

// Sammy... I'm warning you... Get off me... //

I'd count to ten only I don't think I've got enough breath left in me to make it.

// Sorry. But I did warn you. //

Back claws, check. Front claws, check. Time to make a break for it.

"Yee-oooowww!"

Well I never, that's an interesting noise to make. I wonder if he could do it again or whether it's a 'waking up with claws embedded in my bare chest' special. Maybe I'll find out one day. Straightening myself, and getting the kink out of my tail, I stalk up to Chris' pillow and sit down. Sam and I glower at each other. From being dead to the world a second ago he sure looks wide awake now.

"You... You," he splutters indignantly.

// What? You were expecting Chris? Hate to break this to you, but I'm just, you know, a bit smaller than he is. Not to mention furrier. //

My unblinking gaze seems to unnerve Sam a little and -- victory! – he blinks and looks away from me.

"You did that on purpose," he sighs.

// Did not. You tried to squash me. //

"What have I done to deserve this?"

"What have you done to deserve *what*?" Chris queries, mid yawn, as he wanders back into the room and heads straight over to the bed.

"Having two cats in my life," Sam replies miserably. "One who's incontinent..."

"And sleeping in the basin," Chris interrupts, clambering back into bed and quickly pulling the duvet up.

"Excuse me?"

Good. Sam's lost his train of thought. All being well he'll forget to malign me now... Even though none of this was my fault.

"He's sleeping in the basin. I just thought I'd better warn you before you find yourself eye to eye with him and wondering whether you're hallucinating or not."

Sam appears to mull this over for a few seconds. "Oh," he finally mutters dully. "The basin you say..."

"Mmmm..."

"Remind me to disinfect it in the morning..."

"If you *have* to."

"I *have* to."

"That's what I thought," Chris sighs, arranging himself around Sam and making no attempt to shift me from his pillow.

"Oi!" Sam protests, moving on from his cat paranoia, "You're cold."

"No shit. Why do you think I'm using you as a hot water bottle?"

"Oh... Fair enough. Come 'ere then..."

Earthquake take two erupts as they settle down. I wait until I'm content that no more nasty surprises are going to befall me for the time being and curl into a tight ball. Warm again, and recovered from nearly being squished by Sam, I slip easily to sleep.

*****

~Jojo~

Whoooo hooooooo!!!

Not sick anymore! On top of the world in fact!!!

No more big plastic tubes squirting disgusting tasting liquids down my throat. I don't care if it was anti-bionic, or whatever, it was humiliating and foul and I hope Sam's socks smell of cat sick for a good long time

Clean myself up, slick back the whiskers, check the look in the mirror, and you are looking *good*, boy! Today, even the demon collar in it's particularly nasty shade of electric green is looking good.

Watch out world! The. Stud. Is. Back!

I stalk past Her Snottiness on the way to the back door and lick my nose at her. She turns her back on me, huddling into that t-shirt she's taken to dragging about with her. Honestly, you'd think I smell like the old Fat Cow's bloomers the way she carries on. Personally, I think it's the stink that Sam keeps spraying everywhere that's getting up her nose. And Chris' nose too it looks like.

Which is a point. How come I get yelled at for spraying, and Sam doesn't? Unfair, I say. Clear case of inequality of species it seems to me. Especially as mine's natural and his comes out of a big plastic bottle.

Pass Sam and Chris making kissy-kissy noises on the sofa. Wish them luck, not that they need it, I personally know mice that have less of a sex drive than they do. And mice go at it way more than bunnies.

Stick my head out the cat flap and inhale the fresh smog.

Ah, good to know old London town is still out there.

Decide to go out and see what's what.

*****

~Mishy~

I've encountered rotting carcases, not to mention Mrs Fat Cow's elephantine size bloomers, that smell better than the combined aroma of Jojo's puddles and Sam's disinfectant. It's so bad that I'm almost at the point of wishing a sinus problem on myself. Just about *anything* would have to better than breathing in this stench.

Jojo's -- whoop-de-doo -- better, but, as with all bad smells, his legacy lingers on. It's so bad that during the few, and thankfully far between times I venture away from the bed (that, praise the Goddess, merely smells of Sam and Chris), I've had to lower myself to dragging one of Chris' dirty t-shirts along behind me. And how pathetic is that?

I'd have thought that Sam would have just about seen it all by now. But no. His eyes still almost bugged out of his head when, t-shirt in my mouth, I casually undulated past him this morning. For a second I thought he was going to be deluded enough to take my own personal version of a gasmask away from me. Then, however, either common sense or the memory of what happened to him the other night when he tried to kill me, kicked in and he let me pass without comment. The dear boy didn't even say anything to Chris who, incidentally, hardly gave me a second glance.

Bloody Jojo. If I knew where he was I'd inform him, loudly and in great detail, what little I happen to think of him. I mean, on top of everything else he's inflicted on me since arriving uninvited in my life, he's now made me resort to dragging around a piece dirty laundry behind me just so that I can breathe without wanting to pass out. Him and Sam. As with most things, they're both to blame. Honestly, they deserve each other.

I'm still having difficulty coming to terms with the fact that it was *Sam* who -- all on his lonesome mind you -- decided that the time had come for Jojo to have a collar. Okay, so it was a *flea* collar -- which the Goddess knows he needed -- but still! It was just a bit too cosy for my liking. Especially when the addition of a small metal disk, with Chris' phone number engraved on it, was attached to the collar.

The way I see it, it's official, he ain't going anywhere! I'm stuck with him. Needless to say I'm not overly impressed by this. In my opinion, if Sam's so enamoured with him he can take him back to his place and let him piss all over the corner of *his* sofa. Actually, that's something I'd pay good money to see. I suspect it would be something else again. Even better than the near on apoplectic fit Sammy threw when he very nearly put his foot in one of the puddles.

Sam needs a holiday. I'm sure he and Jojo could spend some great quality time in the Cotswalds, or somewhere boring like that. They could bond. They could leave me the hell alone.

And then Chris would miserable... Which, in turn, would make me miserable. So it wouldn't work after all. Damn. It's the air in here, it's affecting my brain. I can't even plot to the best of my abilities.

Sighing heavily, I pick my t-shirt up in my teeth and meander slowly out into the living room. Bounding onto the sofa, I crawl under the t-shirt -- no doubt looking as though I'm wearing it like a horse blanket -- and peer around me. Oh look. The answering machine is flashing the light that says a message has been received. I wonder what it is.

There was a time when I used to be able to check the machine for myself. Unbeknownst to me at the time, not only was I listening to them but I was also... ah... *erasing*... the messages as well. Ooops. That's what you get for having paws instead of fingers. How was I supposed to know what I was doing? I thought I was doing well to realise that the flashing light, when pushed, meant that I'd be able to hear someone talk to me. So what if it was usually only Sam indulging in a spot of heavy breathing? Occasionally Backup or Spencer left a message. Or Malone...

It was the message from Malone that I never should have erased.

Ahem...

They... er... got in way big trouble for not being where they should have been. If I'm to believe the demonstration Chris felt compelled to share, after a few too many beers, with Sam -- even though he'd been on the receiving end of it the first time as well -- then Malone grew horns, frothed at the mouth and looked as though he was going to have a seizure. Then he collapsed... Or perhaps that was just because it had all finally got too much for Chris. I'm not overly sure.

After that, Sam, Mr 'Hang On, I'll Tell You What Fun Means When I've Looked The Word Up In The Dictionary', moved the answering machine out of the reach of curious paws and hung it on the wall.

Hearing keys in the front door, I squirm out from under my t-shirt and jump on to the back of the sofa. Not hearing any sneezing, I know that it's Sam well before I see him.

// Where's Chris? //

Bugger pleasantries. Anyone with this much of a disinfectant fetish doesn't deserve them.

Sam gives me the evil eye. It's a look I know all too well. He'd like to do something to me. He doesn't quite know what, and he lacks the nerve, but nonetheless the thought is there.

I give him the evil eye right back and yawn.

"Busy day Mishy?" Sam queries politely, sidling past me and making his way over to the answering machine. "God knows it must be tiring doing all that sleeping."

I don't bother to respond and merely turn around so that I can keep tracking him with my gaze. I'm more amused by his attempt at sarcasm than I am bothered. He'll keep. Like Jojo, he ain't going anywhere.

Which, yeah, okay, I admit it, is for the best. I'd miss Sam if he wasn't around. It's all very well having Chris wrapped around my tail, but who would I play with if Sam wasn't here. It'd really be very dull and uninteresting.

Sam hits the play button on the machine and we both listen to the message left by the whiny voiced PC Hollis. I'm laughing even before the message is finished.

Well done Jojo, you've really done it this time.

"Good afternoon, this is PC Hollis. I'm calling in respect to... ah... a rather fine looking moggy who was involved in a high speed chase this afternoon with a suspected cat... ah... thief. This number is on his collar. If someone would be so good as to come and retrieve him it would... ah... be greatly appreciated."

Rolling his eyes and rubbing his temples with his hands, Sam sighs. "So much for thinking I'd have a quiet evening," he murmurs, pulling his keys out of his pocket and slowly turning around.

// And to think it was you who put this number on him. Good one. We've now lost our only chance to be rid of him. //

"Don't you start," he complains. "I just don't want to know what you're thinking. Why don't you wait for Chris and tell him. I'm sure he'd be delighted to hear your tale of woe."

With that, Sam stomps heavily down the stairs and disappears. The front door slams loudly behind him and I'm all alone again. It's almost as though he'd never been through. Still snickering to myself -- I can't wait to have a go at Jojo about this little adventure -- I jump down off the back of the sofa and return to my t-shirt. Kneading it into a comfortable shape, I settle down and decide to have a nap. Contrary to Sam's sarcasm, it takes dedication to sleep this much.

*****

~Jojo~

Okay, well, now, how do I explain this to you, Sam?

Don't look at me like that Sam. Please. I'm appealing to your sense of compassion here. What do you mean you don't have one? I know for a fact that's a lie. I've seen what you're like when Chris gets in trouble. Hell, I've seen what you're like when the bratling from four doors down falls off her trike.

Don't you think I deserve some <gulp> pity? Please?

I really really don't want any more entities than absolutely necessary finding out about this. Not even Chris. And most especially not Her Moral High Horsiness. I don't think I could survive the humiliation.

What?

You want to know what's been going on?

Well, I'm in the local bobby-shop, what do you *think*'s been going on.

I think I got arrested and I'm sort of hoping you'll tell them it's all a horrible, horrible mistake.

What do you mean they can't arrest a cat? They just did! Even the mice in the cells were laughing about how hard a life a prison cat has! I don't wanna get locked up! Puh-lease Sam! Get me away from here!

Oh, uh… back to what happened? Well, um… how can I put this?

There I was, aimlessly chasing a pesky butterfly down the street when I saw this really top car! I mean, it was just the best, really! Alloy wheels, spoiler, big fuck off shiny exhaust and, best of all, the window was down.

So, what's a cat to do?

I hopped in.

Leather interior. *Nice*. Fluffy dice hanging from the mirror, not so nice. But, hey, it was a choice machine. I was investigating the back seat when the owner came back. Not only did he insult my dignity by throwing a bag on top of me that spewed out baubles and stuff that got caught around my head, tail and legs, but then he had the nerve to drive off. Bastard.

Nice suede seats though. Claws sank in like through butter, so holding on wasn't a problem. But I couldn't get rid of the stuff I was tangled in for holding on so tight.

Did you know that suede tears extremely easily if its soft enough?

Well it does.

Now, it turns out that this guy was a thief on the run from the fuzz and we went bombing through town even faster than you drive, Sam. And this guy took the corners harder too. And no, I'm not implying that you're a bad driver Sam, I'm just saying that this guy was more of a maniac driver than you. Except that he didn't hit anything. Not until the end, anyhow.

Lots of sirens and flashing blue lights were all around, but I thought I was pretty brave. Didn't freak or nothing. Course, I was too busy trying to keep a grip to really be fazed by much.

Car stopped very suddenly and I held on real tight.

Flew through the air with paws full of suede.

Landed in icky mush where the guys face used to be before it joined forces with the steering wheel.

There really is a reason for seat belts. Guess the guy was too stingy to invest in an airbag too.

Hands reached through the door and it dawned on me exactly what I was sitting in.

I'd had enough of being brave. There's only so much a cat can take before being brave is rather lower on his list of priorities than running away very fast.

So I did.

But I was still tangled up in these stringy bits and stones.

Managed to bolt out the window though. Okay, I admit that my graceful leap to the ground was more of a splat. And I even admit that my normal fluid lope was more of three legged lop.

Still had these coppers running around and falling over themselves trying to catch me.

And I still don't even know why!

Some girly cop jumped on top of me in the end. What a palava!

At least they untangled the stuff from around me and fed me. But I was shut up in a cell for hours and hours and hours. And more hours. Did you know I have a low boredom threshold?

Why didn't you come sooner Sam? And when are you going to tell them it's all a mistake? I didn't mean to shred that guy's car seat, but he shouldn't have driven off like that.

Why are you laughing Sam? What do you mean, I'm a cat burglar? What do you mean I got caught red-pawed running away with the stash?

I don't understand and I want to go home.

Sam's still sniggering all the way home. I just know he's gonna tell Chris and Her Condescending Bitchiness.

He does.

So I slink into the bathroom and curl up in my favourite spot.

Somehow, there's an infinitely superior feeling watching people from the bathroom sink.

Can't think why.

*****

~Mishy~

// Yer nicked! //

// Go away. //

// Aw... Isn't DS Jojo pleased to see me? //

// Naff off. //

Yeah right. Like I'm leaving. This is my place. Which means, by default, the bathroom is mine as well. As is the sink.

After checking to see that the lid is down, I hop up onto the toilet and, sitting straight, stare at Jojo.

// Comfortable? //

// Very. Now, go away. This is my bed and you can't have it. //

// Like I want it. // Sheesh. As if I want to sleep in the basin. Let's face it, it's not like there isn't enough other, better, things to sleep on. Beds, sofas, leather jackets, laps...

I'm still trying to work out why exactly Jojo thinks sleeping in the sink is a good idea when -- oh joy -- Sam materialises in the doorway. Putting the light on, he wanders in, oblivious to our presence, and comes to a stop directly in front of the toilet.

// Oh no you don't! Oi! Down here. //

// Spoilsport // Jojo sighs, alerting Sam to the fact that he's surrounded by cats. His face falls and he blinks slowly.

"Er... Chris?" he calls out, backing towards the door.

"What?" Chris replies, obviously feeling in a dutiful sort of mood and joining Sam.

"We appear to have the feline version of high noon in the bathroom..."

Chris peers over Sam's shoulder. "So we do..."

"Ever thought of getting another bathroom put in?" Sam queries hopefully. "That way we could leave this one to them."

"You mean to say you've given up on aiming for the easier option of simply trying to get rid of them?" Chris snickers.

"It may have taken a while, but I now know my place."

// Pleased to hear it! // I interject happily

"You know, we could leave it to them, for tonight anyway," Chris offers, wrapping his arms around Sam's waist.

"We could?"

"Mmmm... Go to a motel for a night. One with a cat-free bathroom."

"One with a spa?"

"Now you're thinking."

"How about we go right now?"

"Now you're definately thinking."

Thinking *and* acting apparently as, decision immediately made, they spin on their heels and disappear. "Don't do anything we wouldn't!" Chris adds, laughing.

Both Jojo and I roll our eyes.

Yeah. Like *that* narrows the field of possibility.

// Looks like we've got the house to ourselves // Jojo comments.

// Looks that way // I agree hopping off the toilet and meandering out of the bathroom. Jojo's more than welcome to the sink, I'm going to bed. Perhaps if I'm lucky I'll get a replay of my wonderful dream…