In ancient times cats were worshipped as gods; they have not forgotten this.Terry Pratchett
It was a dark and stormy night. Little Gaston, a waif of a cat with ribs showing through lackluster fur, searched vainly for his Kibbles and Bits. The bastards forgot me again, he sighed. These were famine times and Gaston decided he would have to go out on his own into the dreary witch infested forest of the Swiss Alps and hunt for himself. Ha, Ha, Haaaaaa, he chuckled with a deep yoga-esque front stretch, his tail in a proper question mark position.
Gaston loved a bit of drama. It made his life more interesting. But today he felt more like adventure down by the lake. He hadn’t seen his otter friend Jefferey in a while. He needed a change. The girl, Charlotte, kept him up most of the night. She had a peculiar habit of caterwauling late at night.
She would wail; oh, oh, ohhhh god, repeatedly. His man-bro, Gunnar, tried to hold her down and comfort her, but she kept bucking him into the air like a camel jockey in a high stakes race across the desert. Humans, he thought, who can make sense of what they do? Anyway, I need to get away and have a bit of real cat food feasting. A nice mouse under the house will do. Maybe Ratatouille, the squirrel, will be out looking for a nut and we can have a game of chase. Now that is good exercise for a proper cat, such as myself, Gaston thought.
Now, sitting in the middle of his cat box prepared to purify his soul by dumping a bit of toxic waste, Gaston had an epiphany. What the hell am I doing? he pondered. I can take a proper dump in the wilderness like my ancestors did. Gaston stepped out of the box and flicked bits of cat litter back into the box from his paws. He hated listening to Charlotte complain about his only happiness in this stuffy house.
A good refreshing dump and then a lion like leap away from the spoiled ambiance of his private endeavor was the joy of the day and then comes Charlotte fussing about the mess. What did she expect and besides, his man-bro Gunnar could ruin the whole house with his force-fed vegan diet. Yes, she complained about that too. Females, there is a subject of eternal guess work, Gaston smirked to himself.
Escape was easy. Gunnar had long ago left him an escape hole in the closet with the water heater. The hole where the water pipe came into the house was big enough for him to squeeze through and drop to the ground below under the house where a magnificent mouse meal surely awaited. Gaston stood and pulled the door handle down. He made his way to the hole in the corner and peered down to sniff. Ahh, such a rich aroma; damp earth, wood, and the flinty oder of stone. It smelled like freedom.
Gaston dropped a tad unceremoniously to the ground, looked around to make sure no one saw his awkward landing, and proceeded to hunt with skulking silence and fierce intent. Not really, but it sounded cool to Gaston.