ya-a-a-a-awn . . . stre-e-e-e-etch . . . smack smack smack . . .
yawn

Oh . . . hello there. So nice of you to pop in. I suppose I owe an
apology for my long absence. At least the webmistress implied as much in a
series of increasingly indelicate messages dropped in my litter letter
box. Take this one from yesterday:

Moggie, not to hound you like a certain precious yet pesky little Yorkie with overcompensation issues, but you promised to review and highlight a different Jerry Merritt book with every change of season. In fact, you announced that very intent in your first review—a “summer” edition that arrived October 31, 2018, significantly delaying launch of the website. Since then, you’ve nibbled and napped your way through two Thanksgivings, a couple of Christmases, a whole spring and summer, and a major Pulses re-release but have never offered even a single follow up article, despite my efforts to elicit one.

Excuse me for interjecting, but “. . . elicit one?” It seems that, in addition to confusing an intention with a promise, the webmistress woefully undercounts. And as for the trespassing Yorkie stalker with the Napoleon complex, well, you don’t know the half of it. But back to the letter:

As much as I can personally identify with your self-described “endearingly sluggish, personal calendar and clock,” and while I imagine that time must surely stand still for those who remain dead center on the karmic wheel, suspended in either constant nirvana or constant catatonia, it doesn’t work like that out here on the spokes or rim, where most of us pretend to be awake. Time moves. Whether it’s linear or cyclical, it is, at the very least, progressive. Events happen to mark its inexorable unfolding. Events like a mouse trap of mysterious origin viciously snaring the paw of a canine house guest. Or like Mr. Merritt extensively rewriting his first novel to turn it into a trilogy. And when such events occur, our responses (e.g., a review to promote said book re-release) must issue in the same, dynamic dimension using the same metrics. That’s really what makes it “life.”

I so enjoy being lectured on metaphysics by someone mired in Saṃsāra and binary perception. Take her “either nirvana or catatonia” remark. Ms. CSS obviously lacks my vast experience with altered states of consciousness—especially catatonia—and therefore doesn’t realize that the two are one and the same phenomenon. And her grasp of karma is equally naïve since she apparently hasn’t connected her marauding terrier chasing me up the stairs of my own home to that same canine cretin (redundant, I know) later putting his unkempt paw in a mouse trap of “mysterious origin.” Returning, now, to her hostile condescension:

Since you’ve shown no willingness to fulfill your publication commitment as pledged on that long-ago Halloween, I must conclude it was all trick and no treat. Which forces me to rename and restructure your website contributions, singular as they may be. Accordingly, “Moggie’s Seasonal Spotlight” is hereby terminated and removed from the site landing page. May it rest in one piece.

Now that really is Draconian! I think Judge
Javascript is unconsciously punishing me because she has a cat allergy and a
dog with a wicked limp.

However, in pursuit of some path of reconciliation, some way to secure your input here for Mr. Merritt’s sake, I propose the following: if you deliver a review of his brand new novel, Diary of a Teenage Moon Goddess, before April launch of the official book showcase, I will publish it on the front page under the new banner “Moggie’s Latest Mewsings.” This will continue your website prominence while squashing all visitor expectations that your productivity follows any schedule outside your own whim.

It’s not exactly an anchovy. But I
suppose an olive branch will do.

Furthermore, the “Mewsings” nomenclature will draw a clever, species-appropriate parallel between you and your extremely patient and indulgent owner, who—need I remind you—named his own blog “Musings.”

Hmmm. While she yet again reveals her
ignorance, since cats can never be “owned,” the new banner has a nice ring to
it. And I do love me some parallels.

But that’s not all. I will provide a sitewide header link to an archive for all your articles—past, present, and future—while relaxing subject matter constraints so that your epistles may extend beyond book reviews and into the boundless expanse of your wit and wisdom.

Well . . . she’s far from purrfect.
But she is an excellent judge of talent!

Step away from your Friskies and just chew on that for a moment. How many words have found life on the Internet only to be callously dispatched to that gigantic recycle bin in the sky, where they must either languish in limbo—one “restore” mouse click away from salvation—or suffer eternal death through the hellacious, two-mouse click path of permanent deletion (disregarding hard drive CPR and other life support measures available in the cloud.) My proposal saves your words from either fate, preserving them for discriminating readers in perpetuity.

First it was mouse traps, now it’s
mouse clicks and eternal death. Is she trying to get inside my head? A veiled
threat of some kind? Or is she truly offering a tenth . . . everlasting
life to my words?

Now maybe literary immortality means less to cats, who approximate literal immortality so effortlessly. But perhaps my final inducement—a nine-lifetime supply of Star Kist Chunk Light—will convince you to complete the requested review within the specified timetable.

Sigh. She had to go there, didn’t she?

Well . . . enough with old grudges! Besides. Apart from sharing an
occasional private message annotated with my personal animosities, I’m not one
to air dirty laundry in public.

So, Ms. Webmistress, I unequivocally, unqualifiedly accept your generous offer. Subject to a couple of conditions, of course. You see, your well-fed, “precious yet pesky Yorkie” (let’s call him “Porkie” for short) indirectly cost me my eighth life. (Don’t worry. I harbor no animosity towards Porkie, who can’t help that his intelligence is as short as his stature.) The local Medical Office for Unexplained Sudden Expirations (MOUSE) has yet to declare my official cause of death but is working closely with Testing and Reports on Animal Prints (TRAP), who are examining an unspecified mechanical device seized from the scene of my last demise. Not one to wait on bureaucratic formalities, however, I moved ahead with reincarnation, surrendering my “great at ate eight” dog tags (shudder) for a “fine at nine” replacement.

With Mr. Merritt coincidently reincarnating his first novel as a trilogy (tripling the somnolence Pulses, so to speak), Diary of a Teenage Moon Goddess becomes his ninth novel. What a synchronicity! Which brings me to my counter offer: I promise to submit my Moon Goddess review before launch of the official book page if you deliver to me an eight-lifetime down payment on the proffered Star Kist Chunk Light on or before April 1, 2020, the balance to be delivered on a silver platter by Porkie himself upon publication of the complete review.

You may convey your contractual assent to these terms by posting this entire document, unedited, on the front page of the website under the new “Mewsings” banner. As the—ahem—letter box is currently full, please direct all interim correspondence to the following email address:

moggie.attorney@paw.eat.sleep