Mr. Bill is having some kind of weird resurgence of kittenhood. Mr. Bill is, frankly, nuts. Crazed. In-bloody-sane. And he's not quietly mad either, no, he's meowing mad. He makes more noise than anyone else in this household, which is saying something, since Theo barks all the time, especially if, as occasionally happens, there's a squirrel on the front porch. Mr. Bill comes in and out the kitchen door (and he prefers that the door be opened for him; he doesn't like the pet door that's conveniently located in the kitchen door) mewing wildly the whole time. Then he mews at me for a while until finally he decides that what he really wants is to a) go right back out, or b) eat something, or c) just to meow like a banshee for a while. I've never had such a vocal cat. What happened to the cat like the fog, creeping silently about on little gray cat feet? The poet clearly never met Mr. Bill. Mr. Bill jeers at the poet! Loudly.
This would be kind of funny and sweetly amusing, if Mr. Bill did it only during daylight hours. It's distinctly less charming at 4:30 am, particularly when nothing will shut him up. Oh wait. There is something that will shut him up: playing with a beaded scarf on my bed. Playing by meowing, naturally, and pouncing, and trying to eat the jet beads off the scarf. I lay there and wondered if he'd seriously gone crazy. Brain worms, I thought: (4:30 is not my strongest thinking time) maybe he has brain worms. What will I do if he has brain worms? "Mrrrrreeeeeooooowwww" said Mr. Bill, and dragged the scarf across my face.