{This is the transcript of a wiretaped conversation, requested by a very nervous Ms. Raine Weaver, featuring the following cats:
Boo Bear–think Hoss from Bonanza;
Mischa–the little Prince
Cody–instigating psychopath
Pye–feral cat, lifetime on the street}

BOO: So, how do you think it’s going?
MISCHA: (rasping sound of licking) Hard to say. Yesterday was a good day. She sat with that clicking desk thingy in her lap for hours, smiling. Today it’s more of a blank stare at the little tv-thing. You know–like we get when we have to go more than two hours without a nap. Poor soul.
CODY: Promises were made. They haven’t been kept. I say we kill the little tv. Gnaw that rubbery tail apart. That’ll fix it.
PYE: S-H-to-tha-izzit, this dude is crazy.
BOO: Naw, naw. She’s a nice human. I believe her when she says it’s all for us too.
MISCHA: I don’t see how. Writing—phffft. It’s cutting into my lap time.
CODY: I was promised a sunroom when I signed onto this barge. Where’s the money? Where’s the justice?
PYE: Pussies. Bizzay of pussies.
BOO: I think the more clicking she does, the better she gets. It’s something called ‘work’.
CODY: Man, she’s been at it for years now. Either take a dump, or get outta the box. It’s time to rise up! No justice, no peace!
PYE: Fa shizzle.
MISCHA: I actually had a hair ball last week. That’s how long it’s been between brushings!
PYE: Street lafizzle would dizzle some good, boi.
MISCHA: What’d he say?
BOO: I say we have faith in the female. Give her a little more time. Let her snooze in her little ray of sunlight. At least, until we get the hang of opening the catfood cans.
CODY: Okay, I’ll get my own revenge. There’s just about an inch of upholstery left on the couch, and dammit—it’s mine.
MISCHA: All this stress and strain and making stuff up. Why doesn’t she just write about how wonderful her cats are?
PYE: Go figure dat…