diary of a feline flaneur

The Mind of Theodore, Part 4

Rocky

While I continued reading Theodore’s notebook, the phone rang. It was Marie.
“Rocky, I have information that Theodore will be hunting tomorrow in the woods outside Martinsville,” she said.

“Ah, just what I’ve been waiting for!” I cried.

The next morning I loaded my cat-sized musket — won in a poker game some years ago — and various supplies into the back of my old Saab and sped down to Martinsville. Serendipity led me quickly to the hunting party.

I saw Theodore standing with a few other fellows, all dressed in camouflage.
“Ugh, it’s Rocky!” he spat. “What brings YOU here?”

“I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by,” I replied. “After all, who doesn’t love a little hunting?”

“Yes, that’s right. Kill kill kill! That’s what I say!” he said, his face reddening.

“What are you hunting?” I inquired.

“Quail.”

“Quayle?” I asked.

“No, quail.”

“Ah, I see,” I said.

I put on my miniature florescent orange hunting cap, loaded my musket with Cat-Dookie Pellets (R), and shot Theodore. Accidentally, of course. He fell to the ground, his down vest shredded and his face pock-marked by the pellets.

“You bastard! You bastard!” he screamed.

“My man, I think you’ve just been Cheney’d!” I laughed, then ran to my car and sped away.