World's smartest and most agile mouse, you say?

Why are we all demotivated? Look at THIS.

Mouse dressage. It's obscene.

Rivals

It is already May in the great grey city, and I do not think the crab tree will bloom this year. It sprouted a little thin mouse a few weeks ago, but I have not seen him lately. Maybe Orange Charlie got him. I doubt that Little G did: he disappoints me.

The prey seems to disappear fast, and yet the cats are lazy. If you ask me, it's the Corvids moving in. I saw a big, black one up on the roofline, shuffling uneasily, humping his glossy shoulders. Down below, a magpie tore at the skin of a baby hare. Where did he find the nest? Could it be that I am losing my touch?

Poms

In a quiet house, Gooney and Bhiksu found a dusty, blue pompom. It did not realize that its days of peace and safety were over. When the humans returned, they fished out one of the favoured yellow ones. Gooney made them smile as he pranced and leapt like Barishnikov.

The prancing cat Gooney is no Prince Siegfried.

He skidded across the kitchen floor and ended up in front of the small dark passage beside the dishwasher. Extending his hairy white arms into the gap, he flopped his hindquarters in an unseemly imitation of a flat fish like this one.

Bhiksu can make all the excuses he wants. It's not good practice for mice. It made me grind my teeth.

Myself and other Great Artists

My devotion to the arts is well known to my near neighbours, but in this I am not alone. Many feles domestici are great makers and appreciators of all variety of Kunstwerke -- to be found in gardens, under bushes, in boots, and squelching under your toes as you head downstairs to make your dawn cup of coffee. Our creations are to be seen, smelt, heard, savoured. Open your ears and hear our derisive silence or howls: it's all music.

Even technology serves our art. Mr Lee and his Catcam have inspired a new school of the feline photographic arts, combining an appreciation of the outdoors and the underbellies of still-warm vehicles. He and his disciples capture the elusive experiences of grass-stalking, leaf-brushing, glowering, snuffling, drinking from stagnant pools, staring at cows in the distance. If you don't believe me, have a look. A retrospective is eagerly anticipated.

Mr Lee and the Means to his Art

Qui nunc it per iter tenebricosum

The indifferent clouds scud across the sky, a breezy day in this normally stagnant city. Why the exhilaration, tasty sparrows? You may exult as the gusts buffet you upwards. But wait wait. Halibut has been climbing and clings to a swaying branch. My jaws are quivering, little sparrows. And so is the branch: so hurry up, idiot passeres, and fly into my mouth.

Travels of the Goon

In a bag.

Under the steps. In a book case. In the towel cupboard. Under the sink. In the dryer, if he might. If miniaturization were possible, between the CDs or along the top of a row of novels. Under a bush. Under a chair draped with clothing, standing in for a bush. Beneath the duvet (don't jump on it). Maybe the oven is possible? The fridge an even more dangerous possibility. Inside the big bag of cat litter. Inside the small plastic basket which has the harness, jingle jingle. Into the treehouse yes! Over the gate. Through the hedge. Into Pat's garden and under her deck. A skunk lives there sometimes.

Halibut's School of Prey Play and Execution

Hmm. I don't know if G is going to develop his new career. On the one hand, he's been looking conspicuous in the vicinity of small dark spaces. On the other hand, I caught him taking effete delight in a little supper of seethed chicken hearts and avocado yesterday evening. (At least he did not descend further into PASTA, which is a human invention of loathsome farinaceousness, resembling cross-sections of intestinal worms.)

Don't turn on the shredder, Gooney.

I have been thinking of sending some small fluttery thing into shock so I can give G some practice. I know, you are thinking: "What's got into Halibut? Why is he turning all warm and benevolent?" Or, "Do you think you are G's mother?"

Well, G's mother (Angel Eyes Xotic Lilac Liberty if you can believe it) evidently did not do her job. Too busy trying to remember her name to feed the little runt, let alone teach him to slay. I don't like to see talent wasted. Even the miscroscopic talents of the Goon.