Dirty protest

Really. This is the limit.

Yet again we’ve been abandoned with those uncouth, untrained, unsupportable yokel temporary staff to tend to our needs. I swear they have country mud INGRAINED on their paws.

The quality of the conversation has gone distinctly DOWNHILL since they arrived. They tut and fuss every time a cat so much as THINKS about jumping on the worktop to look for cheese. Or STRETCHES his paws out to sharpen his claws on the official scratching posts in the sitting room.

The only course of action is a dirty protest. I shall bring leaves in from the garden and wantonly scatter my meagre biscuit rations around the floor of the kitchen.

I’ll wager that they don’t even notice.

I’m off outside now to find a squirrel to talk to. I am reduced to this in my quest for intelligent and respectful company.

Oh and I’m going to drink brackish water from the small grey plastic pond they have doltishly left in the garden. I shall probably contract an interesting and rare strain of Hackney disentery. That would serve them right…

Hmpf!

(Just look at the mess I’ve made. And with any luck the useless staff will get the blame!)