Last night Sphynx was running around yelling for absolutely no reason. Loud and persistent, Mr. Kitten’s one-meow opera was really getting on my nerves.

I picked him up and cuddled. I poured him some delicious kitty kibble. I even donned ye olde fully encapsulated gas mask in order to clean his oh-so-stinky litter box.

But alas, Sphynx would not go quietly into that good night.

Well, there’s only so much a person can take. I’m not proud of what I did, but I had to do it. Last night, in sheer and utter desperation, I picked up the nearest piece of produce, which happened to be a banana. I yelled Sphynx! And as soon as I got the little devil in my sites, I pointed my potassium-rich pistol and then I shot him.

I shot the Sphynxy.

And then there was peace - or so I thought.

This morning at the unconscionable hour of 6:00 am, I was awoken by an abrupt thud. I quickly jumped out of bed, and fast a June hare, I saw Sphynx dart in my direction. In his mouth, and just as big as he is, was the aforementioned banana.

He dropped it at my feet and ran away. It was mangled and had a gray tuft of fur stuck to it. It wasn’t a dead fish wrapped in newspaper, but I’m sure the sentiment was the same.

What I learned is:

Posted in Kitties, The Classics