It was a dark and stormy night…..well…..it was dark anyway. I was sleeping downstairs when I was rudely awoken but the unpleasant and painful sound of the Little Thing, screaming and crying. It sounded like the crying was going on forever. What in the heck was taking Momma so long to get him to be quiet? I stood up and began stretching on the couch and that’s when I saw it; the baby monitor was on the coffee table.
“I don’t believe it,” I said. “Those morons left the baby monitor downstairs.” That certainly explained why the Little Thing just kept crying and crying. I jumped down from the couch and made my way upstairs. As I reached the Little Thing’s door, I yelled out, “Be quiet! Or else I’ll come in there and give you something to cry about.” Then I turned to go into Momma’s room. As I said earlier it was dark, so naturally I didn’t see the door was closed. Fortunately no one saw me walk into it, head first. Once the stars and birds stopped flying around my head, I used my paws to rattle the door.
“Momma! Open the door! The Little Thing’s been crying for years, Little Missy is still ugly and I don’t have any kibbles in my dish!”
I rattled the door three more times. “OPEN UP!” I was mad. I know I was mad because I was there.
“Momma!” The door flew open. Momma glanced down at me.
“Well,” I said. “As long as you’re up, can I have some breakfast?”
Momma flew past me, completely ignoring me and went right into the Little Thing’s room. Then she said, “Oh my! How long have you been crying?”
I heard Boy-Dadda get out of bed. As he approached me I said, “Hey! Put food in my dish!” He completely ignored me and hurried into the Little Thing’s room.
“RUDE!” I yelled. See – I’m using shouty capitals to show I’m mad.
Then Boy-Dadda went downstairs and started a bottle for the Little Thing.
“Oh sure! By all means, let’s not keep the Little Thing waiting!” Boy-Dadda must have understood me because while the bottle was warming up, he walked over and put kibbles in my dish.
After I finished eating I went back upstairs. The Little Thing was being fed by Boy-Dadda. Momma picked me up. “Such a good girl, Gwennie! Thank you so much for telling me about the Little Thing.”
She must be on drugs. I could care less about the Little Thing. Sigh. Whatever.
Apparently I saved the Little Thing. Guess that makes me a hero. I’ll have to remember this moment when I’m writing my letter to Santa Cat.
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