These monkeys are never satisfied. I had a perfectly decent life in whatever box we were in before. Lo and behold, after several days of odd activity, the puffy-haired bi-ped put me in his miniature box with wheels and proceeded to lock me in there against my will for days. The window pictures in the box changed constantly, other boxes rolling by left and right, other monkeys walking around under the trees and eating sandwiches. What was the problem with the last box we were in?
Finally, ages later, we end up at some new box that is totally different than the last one. I have to start working all over again casing the place, looking for potential hazards and exits, and to finally take a #2. Do you know that as soon as we get put in that moving box, my back end parts refuse to let me #2, regardless of the obvious need? It’s like a tailpipe with a potato stuck in the back, not a good thing. The monkey looks at me and says “there’s your boxy-box kitty-boo, you can go kitty-poo whenever you want.” Right, thanks genius. I’ll be sure to do that when my butt says it's OK.
On the bright side, I do have more territory in this new box. It has a couple other feline prisoners and monkeys, so at least I have someone to talk about and then ignore. One of them seems familiar, but maybe from a past life. One of them still has his precious parts, and has decided to let the monkeys know it by spreading bits of himself all over most all of the furniture and carpet. Go, my furry brother, stick it to the captors, maybe they’ll get fed up and open the door and you can live free, something most of us velvety house-residents have lost the ire to do. If you get a virus or get squashed by a train, tell the Great Whisker hello for me. But for now, we must survive, like POW's behind enemy lines, eating crunchy bits and praying for the day the war will end.
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