Liz and I spotted this bad boy in a vendor's booth at the Taste of Colorado this weekend. It was better in a 16" x 20" format, but if you read my last post, you know I'm already well off in the 16" x 20" department. 
We were attracted to it like unpaid parking violation notices to my mailbox. We pushed and shoved our way through the crowd and grabbed a smaller, less ridiculously priced one, and waved it around in the air with the fervor of a Powerball winner gloating about their frivolous win.
Alife, now otherwise known as "Chairman Meow" has been supporting Communism since the 70's. He firmly believes that if he isn't sleeping, no one else is either. We all must work together to achieve our common goal. In recent months, he has gone as far as to use violence and mental abuse to portray his beliefs.When we got him as a baby, we thought he would be grateful for all of the love and tuna juice we had to give him. We didn't realize that his blood ran cold, and his affection was all a ploy. It wasn't long before we were to come to understand that he was indeed a Chinese spy sent to lay the groundwork for a new political regime based on oppression, collectivisation, famine, and terror. Many nights have been spent at the Belmont Buckingham camp trying to avoid or curtail his mission. We've covered our faces, arms and vulnerable toes with blankets to attempt in vain to soften the blows of his sharp, claw-wielding paws. He steals our most coveted belongings (sunglasses, favorite pens, illegal smoking devices) in an effort to diminish our sense of individuality and pleasure. Similarly, he was very vocal in his earlier days about the absurdity of one's enjoyment of ice cream. He screamed and crawled up our arms whenever he heard the 'clink' of a spoon against a ceramic vessel. His attempts to eat our ice cream were direct orders from Stalin.
In early September, we staged a revolution. We were naive and hopeful of a new way of life. Perhaps, we thought, we could quiet his rage and outright demands for power by cutting it off directly at the source. We scheduled a covert operation at Planned Pethood and dropped him off, blindfolded, early in the morning. He did not go easily, but the operation went off without a hitch. Although our uprising was as abusive and possibly violent as his actions had been toward us all these months, we believed we had no other choice.
For the first day, he was quiet and reserved. He did no screaming, and the dive-bomb attacks were minimal. A wave of relief washed over the camp.
"Not so fast," Alfie whispered in my ear as I slept. We had been so immature in thinking we had seized the beast. He was back, and in full force. We had no chance to escape from the camp while he nursed his wounds in a drug-induced haze. He bit my arm and raced over my face, jumped up onto the window sill where he threw my favorite trinkets to the ground, reminding me once and for all that he is still in charge here.
Alfie, shown here at age 3 months, attempting to rid Liz of one of life's greatest pleasures; ice cream.
These are the instructions for the shower in the same bathroom:
