Where's the Mouse?

I don't have much time. I am a cat being held prisoner somewhere in Southern California. The dog is watching, but he is easily fooled. I told him I'm playing the piano, he is a moron. While I am not "mistreated" in the usual sense of the word, I must escape before I go mad. The large, hairless two-legged creatures who hold me prisoner are well-meaning, I think, but so unevolved, they are almost to be pitied if I did not hate them so.

They feed me this pasty food in a can. Me. Cat. I am a hunter, a living weapon. I crave blood, fresh warm meat between my teeth. I yearn for crunchy bones filled with hot marrow. Not Chicken and Tuna shreds in sauce. Last month I almost caught a moth. Ahh, the chase. First, my lethal approach...subtle yet as perilously accurate as an arrow. Inch by inch I crept up to my prey, every muscle alive, every sense at it's peak, yet as silent as death. The juicy moth just sat there, never sensing my presence. I came close, very close, paused and then -- I pounced! If the fools had a shorter table I would never have overshot the mark and hit the wall. Damn them forever. My ear, my beautiful ear...a precision instrument and objet d'art all in one, was bent. Yes, bent.

And what did the two legs do? They punished ME. Yes, As punishment I was taken to a place called The Vet, where other two-legged monsters did unspeakable things like shaving my beautiful fur and putting strips of white fabric over my beautiful head. Then they forced a megaphone over my head. This trip was far less horrifying than my last visit, however. You wouldn't believe what they did to me. You Would Not Believe It. I can hardly believe it myself except when I look down and...well, never mind, but it's worse than you could ever imagine. Ever.

Finally The Vet creatures returned me to my captors...but they would not remove The Cone of Humiliation from off my head. "Two more weeks, Beebo, you need to wear it for two more weeks and then you'll be fine, azza bwave Beebo, bwave bwave boy." That's the sentence they handed down. The Cone of Humiliation is designed to break me. It will not, even though the dog now laughs at me. At ME.

Let him laugh. I have plans for him. Yes indeedy. I have plans.

The Two-Legs call me Beebo. "Izzee my baby Beebo. Izze wanna skwatchie skwatchie ittle Beebo, come to Mommy, Mommy wuv Beebo" they say. To Me. Me, the Warrior King. I am not a cocker spaniel. I am a living weapon, a Cat. Were it not for the ear-scratching, head-scratching, special pillow near the fireplace and opportunities to torment the dog, I would dispose of the two-leggers and escape. I do not wish to harm two such well-meaning but stupid creatures, but I must have meat. I would eat the dog, but I've seen what he eats, and quite frankly, I'm appalled.

Please, if anyone is out there, help me. Send meat...a box of mice...fat and juicy ones...would make a life of captivity almost livable. Also, since you are putting the package together, I could do with another Feather on a String, two boxes of Fishy Treatz (not the liver, mind you), oh, and one more thing...a chicken bone. A nice, easily-shattered, sharp edged chicken bone...with a nice little piece of bacon to wrap it in. A gift for a friend, shall we say...

Act fast. Please.