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Saturday, October 16, 2010

Nathan Alan Willoughby Gets a New Toy-Fiction

"This will not do, Nathan Alan Willoughby!" The cat woke to Edie's words. She was standing over him with her hands on her hips. "Sure, you're cute, but you really need to get some more exercise. Remember what the vet said."

Edie left the apartment to do her usual Saturday morning errands. Nathan Alan Willoughby watched her go, then went to his food bowl. Nothing. Had he eaten all his breakfast already? And no leftover pumpkin pancakes. It seemed like Edie was serious about the vet's lecture on a healthy cat weight.

After a particularly wide yawn, Nathan Alan Willoughby went over to his catnip mouse. He rolled on top of it and gave it a few good kicks. After batting it under the couch (where he no longer fit), he jumped on it to take his mid-morning nap.

A rustling of sacks and bags preceded Edie's return to the apartment. "Look what I found in the bargain bin!" she practically yelled. Nathan Alan Willoughby watched as Edie's plarn bags fell off her shoulders as she pushed a huge cardboard box into the room. "You can be a commando cat! See, it's a tank. You can put your head out of the top. What do you think?"

The large cat slowly examined the peculiarly shaped box. There was a hole in one side. Boxes are practically irresistible to cats.

A box with a hole in it? Foggetaboutit. He crawled in the side and made the turn toward the hole in the top of the tank. The light of the outside world was visible, but for some reason, he couldn't quite reach it. "Mow" Nathan Alan Willoughby said. He tried to back out. This was also unsuccessful.

"Uh-oh," Edie said with a sigh. She was right to be concerned. "Mow?" the cat said again, the panic rising in him. "Mow!" Edie watched as the box began to shake back and forth, garbled meows echoing inside. Nathan Alan Willoughby tried in vain to exit.

Edie couldn't decide if she should push or pull the cat. Finally, he decided for her. A shredding noise began in the center of the green army tank, along with the angry cat cries. Nathan Alan Willoughby's head emerged from the top of the tank, along with claws full of ripped cardboard. "Mow!" he screamed, right before he jumped out the center, a strip of shredded paper on his rear.

As he raced from the room, Edie looked at the oval in her hand, "I guess this means you won't wear the hat."

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