Kermy’s second letter to Craisin, in which it is divulged that our hero fights for the confederacy, but struggles to accept the implications of secession and mouse slavery. Get some kleenex ready.
On the tenth day of November in the year of our Lord, two thousand and ten,
My Dearest Craisin,
I have not until recently felt the cold stinging of winter’s icy breath. Now it is all I can feel. As temperatures descend, I have attempted in desperation to gain admittance to that warm, dry spot under the covers, yet hitherto have failed most admirably. How painfully do I wish to infiltrate those covers. God willing, I will be able to arrange some accommodations apart from the tired bivouac that all but ensures my paws are kept frozen. Were it not for the unusual shift in kibble rationing, I suspect desertion might present itself a feasible direction.
Yes, the embattled forces now seem defenseless against my cries, and their former miserliness is now replaced by a bounty of kibble, a veritable cornucopia of snacks and meals, at nearly any hour of the day or night. If I had but possessed this prior knowledge I am sure my howls would have commenced long ago. Of course, this sudden banquet is not without its own shortcomings, as the extra five pounds and occasional hairballs can attest. What can you do.
I hope you are well, Craisin. Were it not for your picture-photograph near my breast, I fear I would be unable to gaze upon your soft whiskers, as my imagination has grown dim. It is remarkable how quickly the mind weakens when it is forever fitfully consumed by the petting and prodding of the histrionic. I commonly find myself unable to recount the events of the past hour – even minutes seem to elapse without marking my collective recollection. Perhaps when these bones return to the soft, quilted bed of the guest bedroom, I shall pen a tome on the time that has come and gone, to try and remember. Perhaps.
And yet, oh, Craisin! Though it is clear to me now that I must continue this infernal struggle, the misgivings I have for our purported cause only increase my trepidation. Should the South wing of the apartment secede from the North, genuinely? Can a cat, in good conscience, keep a mouse as a slave? These questions are not easily satisfied, and I find my furry brow haunted by them.
I hope to write you again when the cavalry reaches Sofa Falls. Until then,
Purrs and head-butts,