Proof I Am The Unknowable Shrone

Pooky and I live in a cat attracting house. Today there was no denying it. Pooky took this picture of 6 cats that had collected on our front porch. We do not put out food for them. We do nothing but simply exist. The cats collect like lint on velvet. Curiouser and curiouser!

My belief is the cats can tell that a Shrone in Training lives within the house. They want me to let them in so I can give them distinguished sounding British names like Lady Bartlett, Mrs. Winslow, and Percival Qualm. They want to become part of my feline menagerie, hobknob with Mr. Doo and wear smoking jackets while puffing on stoagies in the sitting room around the fireplace. They want to swarm me in the mornings as I wait for the electric kettle to boil, rubbing their bodies shamelessly against the cabinetry where the cans of tuna live. They want me to scoop their box and be gagged by their toxic odors because cleaning up their poo is a sure sign of unconditional love.

There is a possibility that the beasties were holding a feline convention—something that mere humans would not be able to comprehend. I wouldn't be surprised if Mr. Doo has hatched a plan for total world domination and this is a sign that the end is near. I shouldn't underestimate the powers of Mr. B. He is a pair of eyes looming in the shadows hatching diabolic plots all the while appearing that he is in a constant state of oblivion.

The most logical reasoning for this cat gathering is mating season. I kept hearing the shrill sounds of what is best described as "someone slowly ripping off the fur of a cat" all last night. I never see any kittens result from these cacaphonous copulations. Hmmm. Curiouser and curiouser!