The experiment has ended, and poorly: Kitty Cat has now returned to Nashville with Bevin.
Scooter Thomas appears to have let bygones be bygones. He has returned to his usual snobbish, face-stuffing self, prone to abrupt bouts of prolonged napping and occasional forays into sentimental lap-sitting. He is king again, and no rooms of his castle are off limits anymore.
But why, we wondered, has our Pelican Shakespeare been left open at various places all around the house? First the dining room table, then the living room couch, once in the closet — and then finally in the basement, beside the litterbox. How odd, we thought.
And then, this morning, we found next to Kitty Kat’s temporary sleeping arrangements (a Snuggie-lined cardboard box), this crinkled-up note, written in crayon with the most rudimentary penmanship:
Dear Whoreson Caterpillar,
Never have I ever met such a greasy tallow-catch as yourself. You appear on my doorstep the dissembling harlot, then take your fill of my food and quarters like some fusty plebeian. Saucy lackey! Frosty-spirited pintpot! If you don’t leave immediately, you wretched, intruding fool of mildewed ear, I will — I swear it on my life itself — sit on you til the last breath escapes your knot-pated, puke-stocking stuffed cloakbag of guts.
This explains a lot.
Goodbye, Kitty Cat.