The following blog should be read in a Brooklyn-Mountains fusion accent.

Yes there is.

Yo. So I’m out in this nice subdivision, workin’ my usual scam, “Please lady, I ain’t eaten in three days” big soft eyes, little tiny mews, you know, the Puss in Boots treatment from that movie.

Hey, don’t judge me. You ever been hungry ’nuff ta beg? It ain’t nice, but it’s better’n starvin’. Suddenly the cops show up. That’s happened before, so I make a run for it. But maybe I’m a little slower, ’cause I’ve had this cold for awhile, can’t catch my breath.

And they got this noose, right, on a big pole? They get me in that, and I’m coughin’ an’ chokin’ on accounta the noose, and the chick who turned me in, is she all, “It’s for your own good, poor thing?”

No. She is not. She’s tellin’ the cops I’m the one poopin’ in her flower bed an’ terrorizin’ the other cats. Which I was NOT! Poopin’ in her geraniums. That’s the yorkie who gets out through the screen hole, but she don’t know it.

Anyway, I wind up in jail, and I’m lookin’ rough, ain’t had a bath in awhile, got this cough, so I figure, this is it, right? Death row.

In comes this little grey-haired lady. An’ I swear, if ever the word “pushover” was written on a forehead. She comes over to me with these big soft eyes and says, “If I take you home, will you be good?”

Heh. I go into the belly roll with that little paw wave humans like, battin’ imaginary yarn, an’ I make my eyes so big, you can fit Texas inside ’em.

She hauls me out to hold me–which I do not like; a guy wants his freedom – but I let her ’cause she’s gonna spring me. She puts me in onea those cardboard jail transport boxes, but I’m cool ’cause we’re going to her house, right? Home cookin’ plus maybe a chance to clean up a little before I hit the road again.

Wrong. The vet. She takes me to the friggin’ vet. Now a guy like me, three years old in the prime of life, it takes some finaglin’ to dodge all those do-gooders out there who wanna take my balls. I’ve managed this far, right?

So  if I ain’t busted outta a fewa those jail boxes in my time, I’m lyin’. I make my move an’ there I am in the lobby, giving ’em a merry chase just waitin’ for somebody to come in from the outside so’s I can make my break…

You ever met their receptionist? Dianna? All I’m sayin’ is, she’s got experience. Whatta woman. I never even saw it comin’.

I wake up all groggy on a table, an’ I think they’ve done it, but no, they’ve just checked me for STDs. Which I do not have. I may not be a gentleman, but I’m careful.

After this clean bill of health AND violation of my civil rights, they stick me in a cage. They say they’re gonna do the deed next week when I’m “calmer” then see if they can “socialize” me. They gave me a name: Brutus.

I gotta admit, I kinda like that part. Never had a name before.

The pushover lady came back an’ pulls a chair up to my cell, so I know it’s the old heart to heart social worker routine, yeah? She tells me I need to behave, if I do maybe somebody’ll take me home, and it’d be all soft laps an’ cream bowls, watchin’ the game on TV from the comfort of a heated room with a couch. I gotta admit, that don’t sound too bad. It’s just, I’m used to the outdoor life, minimal human contact, y’know?

She said they’d “assess” me in a week, see if I was headed for a barn or a house. Me, I’m gonna play this by ear. If this “socialization” involves those pretty nurses here rubbin’ me nice, I just might go along with it. But that “alteration” don’t sound so good. A barn, warm hay, mice, maybe some milk now an’ then…. hmm…..

Either way, I don’t hafta spend another winter beggin’. It’s hard on a guy’s self-esteem. Not to mention it can get really cold out there. Heh. Mighta lost my pair another way anyhow, y’know?

Que sera sera. Let’s just see what happens here.