Life as an Army brat cat

Hey, there. Purrburger here again. I’m writing to you from my new home, though I’m not totally certain where we are. They keep calling it Colorado, but I’m a cat and I don’t know what that means. All I know is that I spent 3 days trapped in the Terror Dome before I could finally make my escape. It all started a few weeks ago. Dad came home smelling something crazy. They all opened a bunch of boxes and didn’t leave me the paper to play with. Then my parents shoved me in the torture box and strapped me in for what they called “a whirlwind adventure.” I must disagree with their assessment as I ate several meals within inches of my toilet.

I spent most of my time quietly contemplating my fate while Mom and Dad drove the Terror Dome. A few times, I tried to dive-bomb under their feet to stop the Terror Dome (but really, the cat loves trying to sit by the pedals), but my plans were always thwarted. I had to settle for riding shotgun and sitting on my carrier to get a decent view. No offense, Oklahoma, but you’re about as exciting as my cat food selection.

We also stopped in a few new homes, but, for some reason, we left shortly after breakfast. We’ve been here for a week now, and I’m not sure about this place. Right after we got here, this white stuff started falling and covering everything in my view. Also, Mom and Dad don’t let me play wherever I want. And they have the nerve to move my poop box. Don’t they know I’m scared of the dark? I’ve responded by meowing at them and then walking away when they give me the pets I asked for. Peasants.

Until next time, my minions.