Hi Hey Hiya HEEELLLLOOOO

Short, Brown Hair Guy no here today. Today, me, Sergeant Pepper. Or Pep, as he call me. Or Pepster. Or Peprika. No like Peprika. HAAAATE Peprika! Me no spice! Me Queen. No no no, stupid B&N page, not THAT Queen. This Queen. Yes. Much better.

Anyway, like I say, Short, Brown Hair Guy no here. He gone "work." I use parenthesis here cause I no think he go there. Noone work THAT much. He just no like me. He hate cats. You no believe me? You want proof? Here proof: He no clean litter box every 3 hours like I demand. He no buy bottled water for mine drink. He buy only dry crunch crunch, not smelly can food I only eat 2 bites of. He no cut my claws, EVER! I scratch carpet. He say bad word. I laugh. He friends with cat starver Omar. He friends with weird girl Pamie and her stoopid cats.

You still no believe me? You still think Short, Brown Hair Guy too nice? Here. Read opening of no name story I find on computer:

Sammie McKinney had long held onto the notion that Eric’s Aunt Becca was a witch. When they were kids, Sammie and Eric were fascinated by the way that Becca never cut her hair. They would take turns hiding in the master bedroom and peering through the crack in the bathroom door just to catch a glimpse of that mane of grayish black frizz that hung almost to the floor. Eric was scared that any number of animals could get trapped in there and never find their way out. Sammie, the older of the two by six whole days, was far more mature in her fears in that she couldn’t see how Becca would be able to water ski with all that hair. Not, it had to be mentioned, that they had ever seen Becca water ski. But that wasn’t the point.

The point was that Aunt Becca was short, and pear shaped, and smelled of castor oil. And cackled. The woman actually cackled. A high-pierced combination snort / laugh / cough that could strip the varnish off of a footlocker. It used to scare Eric’s younger cousins so much that they begged not to have to go to her house during Christmas vacation. And who could scare little kids at Christmas, but a witch?

On several occasions Sammie and Eric had searched the entire house for a caldron, an assortment of brooms, shrunken heads, any kind of hard evidence proof of Aunt Becca’s coven. Eric had checked out a book on witches at the library back home, and the first thing that had struck their minds as interesting was that all witches belonged to a coven.

However, the closest thing Becca had even resembling that of a witch, besides a few musty roots in the cellar, was Omar, her mangy, one-eyed, kid hating, and unholy bundle of demon cat.

Omar was anywhere between twelve and one hundred-fifty, depending on whom you asked. The problem was, Eric’s book called for all witches’ cats to be black. Now, Omar may have been young once, say back in the Dark Ages, like nineteen-sixty, but he had never been black. Though, to be honest, neither Sammie nor Eric could tell just what color Omar was. He was at one point orange with brown swirls, and at others yellow with gray streaks. Sammie contributed this to Omar’s complete revolution to water. At the first hint of rain (or in Sammie’s and Eric’s case, the water hose) Omar would shriek like a banshee and tear off toward the house like it’s tail were on fire. Sammie and Eric drew allusions to the Wicked Witch of the West even at their young age.

Still, black cat or no, Sammie held fast to her suspicion of Becca being a witch. It wasn’t the black shawl Becca always wore, even in warm weather. It wasn’t the way Becca always found a way to win at Chicken-Foot. (And what kind of person could always win at a game called Chicken-Foot, if not a witch?) It wasn’t even the fact that no one ever talked about the fate of Eric’s Uncle Phil, like it was some kind of state secret or something. (Eric was convinced that Phil was buried somewhere in the bowels of the cellar of the musty roots.)

See? He HATE cats! Ha! I change name of cat to Omar. Wonder if Short, Brown Hair Guy will notice? Doubt it. Not like he ever finish anything he start.

He supposed to write stories to make money so he can buy me more toys. He lazy. He say computer here too slow. He say he can't write here. Bah! Look at me. I write here, stoopid Short, Brown Hair Guy. You just no understand computer. He no no that I have control switch on back of box. I push button with tail and internet crash. He say bad word. I laugh.

He lazy, I tell you. He say writing hard. He say he miss entry yesterday. He almost cry, ya'll. I try not to laugh. I say stay awake more than 2 hours a day hard. You see me complain? No, you don't. He just no want to make money to buy me toys.

He try to sleep. At night! Stoopid Short, Brown Hair Guy. Night time, MY time. That when we play. That when you write! That when you make us money! TOYS!

Little silver phone make racket last night. He talk to it until after 1 in morning. I no like little silver phone. I knock it off nightstand and under bed. He say bad word. I laugh. And puke in shoe he no wear till weekend. Can't wait to see his face.

He cheet on me, ya'll. I find grey/black hair on his socks. He say Pepper have grey/black hair. I say I no fool. I say I watch CSI. I run DNA sample. I find name. Lucy(ifer), I know you out there. You stay away from Short, Brown Hair Guy. He MY Short, Brown Hair Guy. I find you hair on his sock again, I keel you. Understand?

I go now. Ophra: Behind Show on E! Must watch. Then sleep before he come back.

You no tell him I here, right? I trust you, right? Good. We have understanding.

-Sergeant (Queen) Pepper

"Your cat will never threaten your popularity by barking at three in the morning. He won't attack the mailman or eat the drapes, although he may climb the drapes to see how the room looks from the ceiling." ~Helen Powers (Ha! While you sleep, PAL!)