I wandered downstairs, and wondered what I would do this day, as is custom for me to do every Saturday. I changed the water, as I do every other morning, odd days, of course, to ward off evil, in Charlie's water dish. He appreciates the fresh water. I haven't seen him all morning. No doubt he's out wandering the streets, fighting off alley cats, then turning around and begging for scraps from them. He's a strange one, that Charlie. And yet, I can never find him when I'm bored. He seems to know I'll knock him off the counter for amusement, just to see if he'll land belly side up for once, if I catch him off guard sometime.. I don't know how he does it, but he always seems to know what I'll do next. I think sometimes that maybe he can read my mind; then I remind myself that I personally had taken out the piece of the frontal lobe used for telepathy and mindreading. I can be such a dolt sometimes, forgetting such important details.
Opening the fridge, I noticed the little light bulb that so conveniently keeps the pixies at bay burned out again. Great. Just what I needed. Now those damn pixies will be running around, keeping me up all night, until I get another lightbulb, which is unfair, cause all they will do with it is to serve it as their God. I just might camp in the yard tonight. Yes, it looks like wonderful weather outside. It stopped snowing, so it'll be nice and calm tonight. Looking up, I take note of the almost full moon. I resolve to remember to prepare myself soon. I should probably shine up the silver sword hanging on the wall above the fireplace. I hate it, but every full moon, I turn into a werewolf killer. It's a cool job, but the neighbours always seem to complain about the blood covering their lawns the following morning. Damn neighbours. They should appreciate the fact that I save their sorry lives every month. Seems the werewolves have a personal vendetta with their daughter or something. I'm not sure. It's either daughter or toy boat. I'm not as fluent in werewolvish as I ought to be. Hey, I was a rebellious teenager. Not all into learning a second language and all. I considered it a waste of time then. And now, every time I ask the librarian about books on self teaching of werewolvish, she just gives me the strangest look and tells me to grow up. I think she should grow up. What kind of library doesn't have werewolvish books, anyway? Gee, talk about a culture hater.
I still haven't seen Charlie come in. He's out late today. I'm sure the stupid cat got stuck in the dog door again. He's so fat. I should really put him on a diet again. Oh wait, I did that already. I don?' know how he's so fat then. I don't feed him anymore. It's about time he feeds himself, anyway. He is three, after all. After I reassured myself by checking to see that he hadn't wedged himself in the back door, I sat down to my book. It's called 'Price and Pre dice', or at least I think that's what it's called. The cover was ripped apart on my last night encounter with a werewolf. It has nothing to do with either price or dice, or anything even blatantly interesting, what with it's 'Oh wow Mr. Darcy's so hot' attitude it has. And I really have no idea what pre means, in relation to dice. Maybe it's a satanic ritual. I've never been to one of those. In either case, the book excessively long, and quite boring. I think stories should be short and right to the point. That way people don't get bored and just stop reading the book. Novelists these days miss the point of it all. If it's not witty like Garfield, and short cliffnotes, then what's the point?
Dammit where is that rat of a cat? He should be in by now. Showing me his battle wounds and meowing up a hissy fit. As I walk to the door to check on him, I am reminded by the time he got into a fight with the bulldog from next door. I am, and have always been, convinced that that dog is secretly a vampire. He's got unusually sharp front teeth. And I swear I saw him talking to his master once. It's a conspiracy. They've been onto me ever since the unfortunate incident where I accidentally stabbed him, taking him to be a werewolf. The dog, not the human. But he healed unusually quick. I've been carrying around a toothpick with me ever since I discovered his true identity. The human, is, of course, just a normal petty human. He can't be asked to be much more, there's just no potential there. But I guess not all of us can be superheroes. Anyway, getting back to the vampire next door - one day, he marked Charlie out as his next victim - bad mistake. The fur flew that day; but when Charlie walked in, his fur wasn't even ruffled. The stupid mutt had a checkerboard for a pattern on his back, and I'm sure his owner didn't make it. All the same, I saw his owner use him to play checkers. This resulted in a well earned glare for Charlie for beating up someone weaker than he. He just looked at me with his snake like eyes, as if he was saying, what? Nothing wrong with a friendly cat-dog fight. Or so he sees it. I think he should leave the neighbourhood pets alone. Just because he is infinitely stronger, he shouldn't pick on the dogs like that. Nope, he's still not coming through the door. Oh well.
I realise that I haven't been to the store in quite some time, which was evident by the lack of ice in the freezer, so I grabbed for my keys off the counter where I almost always throw them - and fell over from the lack of weight beneath my fingers. I can't believe it! Those gnomes in the garden stole my keys again! Filthy little gnomes! They know too much about me, what with their eyes always staring, their constant watching me. I think they know about my plot to take over the world - gee I sure have them fooled. Screw the world. I'm going after Disneyland. I can't stand that Mickey character, what with his eyes always staring, and his constant watching. No one can be that happy naturally, so of course I think he's on heroine. Unfortunately, no newspaper reporter will believe my story- saying stuff like I should grow up. What does my being short have to do with anything? How rude! Just because I'm short and have unusually small feet doesn't mean anything! And if it did- so what? They have no right to know about that! If I had my way, Disneyland would be no more. I mean, who names a kids park after a dead white guy, anyway? Isn't that just a tad morbid? I thought it was. No one wants to hear my great stories.
I had to dig through the snow to the ice and through the ice to the hard ground to find my keys, but find them I did. If there's anything good about garden gnomes, it's the fact that they are always consistent in hiding my keys. They don't move around much. People get suspicious when their garden gnomes go missing. They don't understand that gnomes migrate. They hate the snow. Or, at least the garden gnome across the street does. I don't know if they're all like that, or just him. I was so happy I found my keys. I went inside and placed them in their usual spot- in the plant soil by the stairs so the gnomes won't touch them. They hate moving plants from their soil. It's against their religion.
Where was I? Oh yes, I was going to take out the garbage. Charlie usually does it for me, but since he's ditched me for the day, I might as well get it done and over with. I just sure hope the dragon that lives in my backyard is asleep. It's Wednesday, so he very well might be. I know he's livid on Thursdays, so I had better get it over before the sun rises on Thursday. I silently creep along, with the wagon of trash behind creeping along as well, and I slowly tiptoe up to Norbert. He's the dragon, of course. And don't laugh at his name. I swear, no name is suitable for a dragon. You try and find a suitable one. I picked his name out of a socerer's book; there was a dragon named Norbert, and although they are different species, I don't think Norbert minds much. But don't tell him his name. He thinks he's a girl. Silly dragon.
I don't have to worry about him though. He's always asleep on Fridays. He's like clockwork, I just have to look outside to see what day it is. He's pretty decent, I mean, for a backyard dragon; he eats all my trash for me, and I pay homage to him every Monday with a peanut butter sandwich. With bananas. He loves the stuff. Apparently it's like catnip to cats. Charlie hates catnip. Maybe other cats like it. I never cared for it either. The only downside to Norbert is the fact that I have to buy a new wagon every time I give him my garbage; he got all offended once when I didn't give him one; he pointed out that I wouldn't like eating off the floor, and he doesn't like eating off the ground. It's uncivilised. Apparently manners are very important to dragons. And I am rather fond of eating off the floor, for the record. It adds a distinct new flavor. Better than salt, I say. Today's wagon is a shiny red one. Dragons love the color red. More so than blue. I don't think I could ever love someone who loved red more than blue. But Norbert's a dragon, and I could never marry a dragon. Where would we live? It's irrational.
Walking back from Norbert, I noticed that something was lying on my lawn. I start to loudly curse my neighbours with the poodle because obviously their irrational sons were catapulting again. I told the neighbours to give them a decent catapult. But no, they let their sons construct their own, and it never shoots farther than my lawn. Talk about useless. I walk up to it, and kick it with my shoe. It's orange. And it's a cat. I've never owned a cat before, so obviously I've never had a need for one, so why would I want a dead one? I look at it more closely. They look quite different close up. I look closely at the tags on its collar- it's name was Charlie. What a dumb name for a cat. The owner had it coming if it named their cat Charlie. Who wouldn't catapult it? And who buys red collars for orange cats? It clashes! Gee, you might as well put a 'Catapult me' sign on the cat's back for all it's asking. You can't expect a cat to get through life with a name like Charlie and a clashing collar. It's so last season.
I ponder what to do with the doomed thing, and I resolve to catapult him on my brand new Catapult 1001, the latest model in catapults. Man, if the neighbours saw this, they would be orange with envy. Hey, just like the cat! I figure, this is the perfect opportunity to test my new toy, so I dump him in, take aim, and shoot. They sure can fly! Losing my fun, I sigh, turn around, and head once more for my humble abode. I wonder what to do now; Monday's are so mundane. I wander back inside, then sit on my sofa. Man, I miss Charlie. I wish he was here.
