I can hardly find mews to express the abominable events of the past few hours. As if I had not suffered enough in recent days: the constant scramble up onto the roof and through an open window to get inside the house; the noisy shivering of the sleeping humans inside every time the gusts blow open the curtains when I jump down; the indignities I suffered at the hands of that vet on Friday, the injections and the pills, being lifted by the armpits to be inspected for fleas and ticks (the impertinence of it!), not to mention the taking of my temperature. Suffice to say, the themometer wasn't put in my mouth.But now I find myself kidnapped, seemingly with the consent of my humans. My prison is a cage about the size of a rabbit hutch, and I am surrounded by other similarly caged cats in the back of a vehicle that bumps and swerves to a destination I tremble to imagine. They put me here, with various coos and terms of affection that contrasted sharply with my treatment, and promised they would see me again soon.
Are they in some way involved in this dastardly plot? I have been racking my brains to work out who could have carried out such an infamous act. Was it Fluffles, feared kingpin of the Elgood Avenue string-dealers? Or Mrs Minxie? I had heard she was worried my testimony would bust her Woodside Road shakedown network wide open; every house on that street is in hock paying for treats as 'protection' against the mouse 'epidemic'.
Must hide this now. The van has come to a stop. The driver is coming round to the side door. What is this place?
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