Saturday I was taking a long afternoon nap. I was having visions of Mousies in my head when somebody rudely snatched me up from my nice warm spot and hauled me into the dining room.
"Picture time!" The Writer said. She proceeded to tie a wide pink ribbon around my neck, then stood me on the dining room table--a place I am NEVER allowed to be--and said, "Look lively!"
The Writer had posed me by an arrangement of old ornaments in an old cut-glass bowl. I was sleepy and my mouth felt like the bottom of a birdcage. I kept sinking down with my chin on the bowl.
"Sit up!" The Writer barked. "Look lively! Don't smell the ornaments! Stand up! Look at me! Turn your head a little so your bow shows! Stop sagging! Sit up!"
I wasn't sleepy any more but I was mad. Who did she think she was talking to?
"Why don't you take good pictures any more?" The Writer wailed. "You used to be so cute. Now you don't even look up. I'm going to trade you in for two kittens. They look cute without even trying."
Kittens? Was this a real threat? I'd heard The Writer say she would love to get a kitten instead of having all these grown cats come live with them. But, she always added, the problem with a kitten is that it grows up into a cat.
Then the real blow hit. I'm not cute any more? When did that happen? I've always been cute--it's my trademark, like my white spats and fantastically long whiskers. But maybe my cuteness is fading . . .
So here's my Christmas portrait. Yes, those are worry lines between my eyes. I'm fretting over losing my cuteness. Do you suppose they give Botox to cats?