His name morphed into "Chewables" simply because it's funny, but he prefers the pronunciation "She-WAH-blez" because he thinks he's some kind of a Spaniard. Honestly, he'd have conversations on the patio with my uncle who was learning to speak Spanish while ignoring the rest of us because we were using regular English. It really ticked me off that Chewables would act so cavalier, because he was born right here just like the rest of us.
Chewables' penchant for chomping his peers grew problematic. The other cats started complaining. Loudly. At 2 AM. Every. Single. Night.
I would find Chewables crouching on the roof in the morning. He would look down at me and sigh, in his best Spanish accent, "The ladies, they are always chasing me."
Pixie spent an entire day last summer looking for Chewables. "I can hear him," she said, "but I can't find him anywhere." Lefty found him. After dark. In the chimney. Hunneypunkin pulled him out of the fireplace, coated in soot since he'd been there all day, and all Chewables had to say was, "The Lady of the House, she was calling to me." The Lady of the House narrowed her eyes, laid back her ears, switched her tail, and growled at him from her usual berth on Lefty's arm.
Something had to be done. I even discussed with Hunneypunkin how we might have Chewables relocated, but Angel Doll loves him and her heart would be broken. Ultimately Chewables was sent to the vet. You know, to be tutored. But he didn't learn a thing. He still strolls down the sidewalk in pursuit of the kitty contessas, winks at me through his Zorroesque mask, and says, rolling his r's, "I am the Jeremy Renner of the kitty kingdom, am I not?"
The stray dog is barking at She-WAH-blez.
ReplyDeleteDuh.