Scooter Thomas

Scooter Thomas Not Quite Live Blogging the Great Cincinnati Blackout of Aught Eight

Our cat Scooter Thomas is an occasional guest blogger and was the only one home when power came back on in the Vore house early this morning. He filed this report.

Monday, September 15. 9:14 p.m.  My pansy owners have fled north where pockets of electricity have returned to select neighborhoods. They are staying with family tonight, and are fortunate enough to enjoy a hot meal. But am I not family? Do I not deserve something fresh out of the oven? Not that I eat anything but my IAMS Weight & Hairball Control dry food, but I take umbrage at the implication I am sub-family, someone to be abandoned in trying times, left to fend for himself. Woe to us felines! Woe!

10:31 p.m. Someone is shooting off firecrackers in the street. Trees are still down in our neighborhood. Power lines remain slack. I sense we are a razor’s edge away from martial law. I should probably apply face paint and round up some firearms.

11:10 p.m. I am camoed out. I have a bandana on my head and black streaks below both eyes. Some of it got in my whiskers though and I’m a bit pissy about that. I keep my paw on the sawed-off shotgun I found in the basement. The safety is off. To borrow a phrase from my favorite military thriller writer W.E.B. Griffin: Retreat, Hell!

Artist’s rendition of Scooter Thomas in Commando mode. Cat pictured is 1/20 of scale.

11:13 p.m. I am extremely tired. The Apocalypse is wearing me out. I’m just going to close my eyes for a second. No harm there.

Tuesday, September 16. 2:02 a.m.  I bolt awake at the sound of the house humming to life. Lights pop on everywhere. The fridge whirs. Central air vents click awake. I am sweating profusely, clutching my shotgun close in a death grip. I saunter upstairs to the bathroom and get a look at myself in the mirror. Getting all this paint off is not going to tickle.

9:01 a.m. Seven painful hours later I am scrubbed clean. But my tongue feels like sandpaper. I will never lick again.

9:08 a.m. The male walks through the door, eager to see me. He has no idea. The contempt I feel for this coward defies description. Last night I stared into the abyss and it stared back. He probably watched the Cowboys/Eagles game on cable and had a fresh cup of coffee when he woke up.

     I head upstairs to reapply the face paint.


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