My name is Tillie. And I have a problem. Cat-Mom is really, really mad at me. She's been on the phone today, asking folks if they might want to adopt a cat. I think she's being unreasonable.

This morning, the good cat and I (god I hate that other cat. Goodie fucking two-shoes. Never gets in trouble, but really, dumber than toast), anyway, we got up this morning when we heard mom get out of bed. She usually stumbles downstairs to make coffee and we usually race ahead of her to make sure she remembers to pour us our kibble. So, there we were, hanging out in the kitchen waiting for her, and suddenly, cat-mom starts screaming. Loud. Something about my parentage. It didn't sound good.

Then I remembered.

It was cold outside yesterday so mom-cat brought in the hibiscus tree. She loves that tree. I do, too. It has big, yellow, yummy flowers, and I discovered this spring I could climb the tree and snag a blossom. I like to chew all the flavour out of them and then spit them on the floor. Cat-mom finds them later. She's never happy about that, but she still feeds me and stuff. So I figure we're cool. Besides, last May she moved the tree out to the "outside," that place I'm never allowed to go.

Anyway. Last night, I tried to climb the tree and it didn't quite work out the right way. I must have gained some weight 'coz look what happened.

Instead, she stomps over to the kitchen utility drawer and starts looking for string, bandages, anything to fix the "fucking tree, you fucking piece-of-shit cat." Or at least I think that's what she said. She also said something about how she was sure PETA would give her some special dispensation. She also said that she was FedExing me to DC on Monday. Something about going to live with Senator Frist, some guy who apparently really likes cats.

So, cat-mom went out to the hibiscus tree and started trying to prop it up. I offered to help.

Mom locked me in the walk-in closet. This does not become the descendant of one who was worshipped in Egypt, let me tell you.

After what seemed like a long time, she let me out. The hibiscus tree had been tied to a hook by the window. Then cat-mom went back upstairs. I thought I'd check out what she had done.

Cat-mom came downstairs again, and caught me doing this. Next thing I know, I'm out on the second-floor balcony and the door to cat-mom's bedroom is closed. It's like 40 degrees out here, and I'm freezing my cat tush out here. Meanwhile, the good cat is inside, on the bed, licking under his tail where his balls used to be. I can hear him laughing at me. 

Cat-mom fixed the tree again, and I was allowed back into the warmth. I think she was talking to me when she said something about her "last nerve," but I can't say as I was listening. She went out grocery shopping. When she came back, the tree was sideways again.

Cat-mom said something about feeding me to the pack of feral cats who live outside.

I thought I'd plead my case here. I mean, how could you not love a cat like me?

 When I still owned my house, I had two cats: Tillie and Zeke. (They now live with Hatchetface who took pity on them when they were going to be forced to live in a tiny apartment.)

Tillie, by any other name, was a demon. 

This is my favorite Tillie story--every word true--and I share it today because we could all use a laugh. 

--Lorraine