I live in Vermont with two cats I adopted from the local humane society four years ago - evil sisters, or so they said - Fred the basset, as well as a collection of humans. But they're not important. Today, it's all about the cats and how they're trying to kill me.

They've been practicing on small animals, warming up with mice and then moving on to other members of the order Rodentia. Chipmunks. Voles. Moles. They arrive in various states of decapitation much like the Mafia drops off horse heads. Calling cards of cold-blooded assassins. Warning signs that the Sensitive Stomach Purina Chow is just not cutting the mustard.

One day, I emerged from the downstairs bathroom to find their latest weapon - a snake curled up and very much alive right outside the door. This could only have been a matter of revenge since my fear of snakes is legendary. They hate me for reasons I do not know.

Much to their chagrin I'm sure, the snake was a simple garter. Not much poison to kill me and I was able to sweep it into a waste basket and throw it outside.

....And yet they continue to plan and plot.

If I don't blog someday, call the PD and tell them whom to finger. Because if I write "Patches and Tiny" in my blood, you know they'll only lick it off.