My Dear Public,

The fog rolls in. Unlike most of my generation, I sleep soundly most nights, but lately...

I am standing on paper. White paper. I am in a large, flat field, a hundred acres or so. In the distance, I hear a scream. There is something dark against the far treeline. It is coming to me.

It leaves a trail behind it, and as it moves, I see that it is a stream of blood, moving quickly, its head driving towards me. I try to dodge around it but it widens, and my tiny white paws are turning red. All around me invisible people – men, women, children – are screaming. Their voices hem me in and I am vomiting more of the white paper.

I wake up.

Ever thine,

Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten

My Dear Public,

It is October, and the skies are grey. I should be frolicking in fallen leaves, enjoying the crispness of the air while snuggled inside my quilted 'SECURITY' vest. Despite my propensity towards cutting capers and gamboling, I do take my role as Little Orange Watchman very seriously. One must not think that I am anything but swift and thorough in dispensing justice to those who would attempt entry to my family's home without my consent.

I should say, though, that the job has changed – these days it is, by and large, quite tedious. My lengthy campaign of rodent genocide has effectively removed the local mouse population. Sometimes, I catch a glimpse of a squirrel, but they wisely keep to the trees, and away from my premises. Despite all this, it's not an easy job. One must be ever vigilant, and it is rather exhausting.

In order to take some of the pressure off, I installed seventeen motion-sensitive machine-guns on the property. I know they work, because my family can't come down the driveway now, I've been shot at six times, a police cruiser and firetruck have been demolished, and I am all alone in the house. The problems here are twofold: one, I might kill someone I am sworn to protect, and two, my food is locked in a Rubbermaid tub under the sink, and I cannot feed myself. Unfortunately, when I try to turn off the system, I get shot at and have to scurry away. In hindsight, putting the control panel outside the house was not wise, but I figured that it would help me get some extra exercise if I couldn't just turn it on and off from my bed.

If any of you have armoured personnel carriers, can you please, please come and help me? I am not inclined to begging, being a very proud little orange soldier, but if you come, I will let you have the Victoria Cross I was awarded after the Battle of Rorke's Drift. I've been eating out of the dog's dish and I think I'm going to die.

Ever thine,

Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten

My Dear Public,

I am only small, being the runt of my litter, but I have grand dreams. Unlike most of my kind, I am not nocturnal. Instead, I pass out through the night, waking at about 6am, ready for adventure.

I will begin for you here a dream journal that will stand in for those days when very little of consequence takes place in my waking life. Today being a rainy day with little in the way of hunting or other outdoor activities for a robust orange fellow such as myself, we shall travel arm-in-arm* down this path of dreamy tales.

A Kitten's Dream, as took place the night of September 25th/26th

I wake in the midst of frenzied shouting to find myself lying on a cot. The floor is dusty, and I realize then that it is sand. My tail is numb from lying on it the wrong way, and it makes me wiggle my bottom to loosen it up a bit.

Turning to my right, I catch a reflection of myself in a darkened window, taking note of my fine imperial handlebar moustache and red tunic.

There are more shouts from outside, and I bolt to the door. In the distance a tree is burning and I watch as the flames catch the thatched roof of a hut. There are men screaming inside, and I realize that it is an infirmary.

I am running to their aid.

'Don't fear, lads,' I cry. 'Never you fear, we'll get you free of that damnable blaze!'

I catch the arm of a panicked corporal running across my path with two privates in tow. Still running, I attempt to drag him to the hut while exhorting him to help me free the sick and injured men from the fire. He breaks my grip and runs off with me shouting after him. I keep running towards the hut.

Suddenly, from the darkness, a lone, long assegai whips towards me. I see it as though it is moving through treacle, its flight perfect, slow and sweet. It catches me full in the chest and passes through my body, hanging up inside me on the last foot of its shaft. I pitch forward into the sand, the air thickened by the screams of the burning men in the hut.

The pain is incalculable, and each breath causes the shaft of the spear to stir about inside me. I am growing weaker and weaker. The last thought that passes through my mind before my death is that I am still wearing my snood. I laugh at the absurdity of it all and die a true Englishman, a smile still on my tiny kitten lips.

Ever thine,

Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten

* In actual fact, as I am only small, tire easily, and am given to time-consuming distraction by birds and small creatures, you will need to carry me. Mea culpa. I apologize profusely in advance.

My Dear Public,

After having my personal diary put in a cupboard, I was temporarily unable to write to you. All that is over now. I love you very much, and I am very sorry that I have been gone for so long.

Today, I would like to talk to you about men with ponytails. There is no such thing as a man with a ponytail who does not look sleazy. If you have a ponytail, and are a man, you are disgusting and offensive to the eye. I do not want ponytailed men reading my blog, as I am but a tiny kitten and cannot handle such revulsion as I feel when confronted with such greasy types as exemplify the ponytailed man.

If you are a man with a ponytail, either get a haircut and take a bath, or get away from me forever.

Ever thine,

Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten

My Dear Public,

I am the Phoenix. I am born again in flames. I am returning to you. I am returning. A tiny, orange ball of fur and love. This is me.

This
is
who
I
am
.

Ever thine,

Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten

My Dear Public,

If you are wondering what happened with the mice, I killed all of them. If you are wondering where I was, I was in jail for three weeks. It turns out that destruction of property is illegal, even if the property in question is a gas-guzzling SUV full of asshole mice that I may or may not have driven off a cliff, jumping out at the last second like a motherfucking ninja.

Anyway, I am pleased to announce my new music project, Cat For Lashes. I will be publishing some tight lyrics very soon, so keep your vaginas burning for me. I will fill them with hot, syrupy music soon enough.

Ever thine,

Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten

Editor's Note: I have not heard from Marvin in over a week. The authorities have been notified. Please keep him in your thoughts and prayers. Below is an entry excerpted from a note he once sent me.

**************
The best thing about when there is a birthday in my household is that there is a cake. I fucking love cake. No sooner do flour and butter go in the bottom of the baking pan, than I am sitting on the stovetop, licking said flour and butter straight out of the pan. Then I get yelled at, and MORE butter and flour go into the pan. It's awesome.

Afterwards, they put the cake in the pan and bake it. At this point, it is difficult (even dangerous) to lick the bottom of the pan, as it is heated to very high temperatures indeed, and sealed securely inside the oven. It is possible for me to stand up on my hind legs, rest my front paws on the oven door, and peer in through the glass. This sustains me until the cake comes out and cools.

The next part is the even better part than the best part I mentioned earlier: they put ICING on it. I fucking love icing. No sooner do they ice the cake, than I am sitting on the table, licking said icing straight off of the cake. Then I get yelled at, and MORE icing goes onto the cake. It's awesome.

I love birthdays.

- Marvin

My Dear Public,

I apologize for the lack of entries. This has been a bad week for me.

Sunday morning, I went downstairs to find a note addressed to me (assuming that I am 'big oranj basterd'). It was from the mice. Apparently, the one I killed has friends and family, and they're mad.

Some choice lines from the note:

'we guna kut yur faece intwo piesces'
'yur guna rigrette playin aginst myce leik us'
'we no whear yu sleap and we haev a guns'

I've called the police, but they claim there's nothing they can do for me. One female officer even insisted that she didn't understand what I was saying, and hung up on me. Another claimed I was prank calling and only 'pretending' to be a cat.

I have nowhere to turn. The system has let me down. There is a mob of angry immigrant rodents in my house, somewhere, and they're looking to cut me with their gun. I haven't been sleeping, I haven't been writing, I've only been watching. Watching and waiting.

We are at war.

Ever thine,

Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten

My Dear Public,

It is certain to the good and noble ears of this particular little orange fellow that never has a song equaled the simple and terrible beauty of Scott Walker’s ‘Face on Breast’. Firstly, I like faces and breasts. Also, he talks about a swan in the song, and I like swans – a lot. I have always wondered how best to eat one without it noticing and beating my tiny body into a tiny pile of pulp with its mighty wings. Sometimes the song makes me sad, especially the lines ‘Pledging my love / Pledging my love / What if I’m only / If I am only pledging my love?’ This reminds me of all the times my family promises me that I can go outside, but then they forget or tell me that it has gotten too dark out. So it’s sort of like they were pledging love and good times to me, but then they took it back. It makes me very sad when they do this, and I think it is actually animal abuse. I am looking into it, because I saw a thing on TV about it.

Ever thine,

Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten

My Dear Liam Neeson,

I am very sorry about your dead wife. I understand that you are filming an Atom Egoyan movie in my country, and it is not far from my town, because you are in Toronto and Toronto is close to my town.

I am comfortable with my sexuality and I have no balls. So, Mr. Neeson, I guess what I am trying to say is this: let me be your new wife and we can raise your children and have lightsaber battles to save the Jews.

I have included rough composite photographs of my proposal. They are immediately below these words.




I understand if you want to take your time. So do I. We need to go slowly. I am small and orange and I can't handle being hurt again.

Ever thine,

Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten

My Dear Public,

We are so close to spring now that I can very nearly taste it. This is a time of renewal, when the grass grows green again, and I can spend more time on my tether outdoors.

Nothing quite beats stepping out the back door strapped into my harness, and murdering an entire family of mice (my record is 9 dead mice in one day). I can often be seen picking the babies up with my teeth, and then tossing them into the air and trying to catch them on the way down. I'm a regular biblical king when it comes to the baby killing.

Horses are very scary, though. I like to be kept away from them, because I am only small and they are very big.

Ever thine,

Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten

My Dear Public,

Another St. Patrick's Day has passed me by.

There is something quintessentially Irish about me. I get this a lot – being a ginger and so on, and having moderate-to-severe anger management issues. I also can't get enough taters, no matter how many there may be on offer.

Despite this, I am not to be found in the pubs on St. Patrick's Day. Instead, I lie under a rocking chair with my tail curled up around my sleeping form for safety. I don't know what this says about me. I don't know what it says about society. I just know that the milk I'm drowning my sorrows in isn't Irish.

Ever thine,

Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten

My Dear Public,

its difciult to tipe so i wills right onely a short entree abbut giong too outdrors of my hoese

i sawe cluods and teh sun and cars it was warme
yahnk yuo

Ever thine,

Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten

My Dear Public,

This is a sketch I made of my disguise, because I know a lot of people must be wondering how I pulled it off. The box was very long on one side, so I put a counterweight on the other.



Ever thine,

Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten

My Dear Public,

Marvin's journal. March 13th, 2009. Unlucky Friday. Black Friday. Bikers in Port Dover today. Cold sun. Colder shade. They have a wharf down there, a jetty, what-have-you. Walked to the end, there's a seawall. A lakewall. Stood in it with heavy wind. The waves made it over the top. You're trapped beneath a crush of Lake Erie, the whole stinking, foul, polluted green mess, toppling onto your head. Liquid bricks. Frigid chunk of rain. No place for a kitten. Fish and chip place nearby, seems a safe bet. A stiff drink of milk, a scrap of breaded halibut. Wipe my tiny white beard on the leg of a customer I like. These people are cursed, they are tossed clay pots in flight, not aware that they've got to shatter sometime. Bikers. I drift through them, unheard, unseen. Ankle-height to them. Chrome everywhere, reflecting my distorted face, funhouse-crazy, eyes bulging sideways, body malleable. For a second, in the shining muffler of a Harley, I am a bonsai kitten. How many are One-Percenters? Smell of leather, body odour, beard. I make it through the scum, up the hill to the Tim Horton's. I hitch a ride with a middle aged woman with dead eyes, sunken cheeks, wispy grey hair hanging from her skull. This grim reaper takes me home. Home in time for my Science Diet meal. Home in time to escape cold, unlucky death.

Ever thine,

Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten

My Dear Public,

It is cold today, and the clouds lie heavy and oppressive over my small farm. The wind blows furiously.

I am indoors. It is not my problem.

I look out across the road, my eyes falling on a tree whipped by the wind. It is losing branches to this onslaught of rushing air.

I am indoors. It is not my problem.

Motion, organic motion, catches my eye. A robin, tricked out of his slumber, staggers slowly across the lawn.

I am indoors. This is a problem.

If only doorknobs were made for those without thumbs.

Ever thine,

Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten

My Dear Public,

'Watchmen: one of us died tonight.'

This is a line from a movie called 'Watchmen', and I saw this movie on the weekend. I was very excited, because I had never been to a motion pictures house. When I got to the motion pictures house, I was inside a box labeled 'papkern'. It was my clever disguise. It had two eyeholes cut out where the 'a' and the 'e' were in the word 'papkern'. They don't allow cats in the motion pictures house! Even in this day and age! Martin Luther X. must be rolling over in his grave! 'I had a dream' indeed!!!!

There were parts I liked in the movie but also parts I didn't. I wish the blue man was orange – he reminded me a lot of myself, but he was blue, so that was confusing, since I'm orange. So I was like 'are you me, or not?'

I liked it when the guy punched the guy's elbow and his elbow came out. I like blood and stuff. I also liked the big cat, but I know that it wasn't real, because its ears were too big, and it was in the motion pictures house.

Ever thine,

Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten

My Dear Public,

This morning at four of the clock, I was awakened. From the basement, there came the light padding of tiny feet. My grogginess dissipated instantly: there was a mouse in my house.

I made my way as stealthily as possible down the stairs (I am made to wear a bright red collar with a damned bell around my neck). Despite this handicap, I cornered my quarry. He didn't see me at first, approaching as I did from behind. Suddenly, he sensed my presence. Whirling on the spot, he gaped at me.

I smirked.

'Can I help you find anything, sir?'

His mouth opened slightly, his still-lit joint dropping to the floor. He spluttered. I laughed.

'What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?'

He screamed, and I was on him in a flash. He sat back on his haunches, waving his paws feebly in the air before my face. Pathetic. I batted him sideways into the water heater before carrying his dazed and helpless form upstairs. There I continued to entertain him for three-and-a-half hours before being cruelly interrupted. Deeming my pastime 'inhumane', my family removed the mouse from my care and released him outside.

These fucking hippies will never learn if we keep being so easy on them. This is my house. What's mine is mine.

The asshole had it coming.

Ever thine,

Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten

My Dear Public,

I try to act with decorum. With civility. It is surprisingly difficult, to be quite honest. I am orange. I am small. I am furry. I draw stares.

When I am out in my street clothes, don't point. Don't giggle and gawk. I know I'm a cat. I know I'm wearing clothes. Please let me be – if my be-cottoned presence is so offensive, it may please you to know that on any given day, I have but a few easily-avoided stops as I make my way through town. In sequence, they are:

1) The Olde Livery building – 10:33 am,
2) The Kissing Stone – 11:28 am,
3) The Footbridge – 11:47 am,
4) Frabert's Fresh Foods – 11:50 am,
5) Templin Gardens – 12:16 pm

Please bear in mind these times and give me a wide berth, for I cannot bear your cruelty.

Ever thine,

Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten

My Dear Public,

This day is Sunday, and it is in March. My friend and accomplice C. types my thoughts for me. I would like to, but I have no thumbs, and there are times when spelling is difficult for me.

That said, C. lives and works in the city, and as I can only get so many manuscripts delivered to him at a time, it is perhaps inevitable that I will, at some point, be typing my own entries. When that happens, I ask that you bear with me.

Ever thine,
Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten