J. just left.  She is still in a tizzy over some woman that came to visit a few weeks back.  I kind of liked the sound of the fireplug from Bath but J. is ever so protective of her Mr. Rochester.  She does not indulge in the communal feeling as much as I do.  But that isn’t to say I haven’t had a few catfights in my time as well.

I generally don’t care to tussle, I never have.  For me it always came down to was whomever we were fighting over worth the spilled drink?  Almost always the answer is no. There were a few tiffs over beaus that led to some hair-pulling (on their part) or filling their best handbags with cat litter (on my part) but fairly minor skirmishes, really.  I had a proper rival for Thomas’ affections. Bless his heart, Thomas barely knew what to do with me, let alone a girlfriend.  But that didn’t stop little Miss Penelope Palmer from sidling up next to him every chance she got.  Now, at the time Thomas proposed to me, I just assumed he would always be there.  And for all I know, if he hadn’t be magnetized to attract the front of a street-car, he would have been.  But that didn’t stop me from planting a few pieces of bad chicken in Penny’s salad when she came to call; the silly twit was sick for days.  However, she declined future lunch dates and kept a respectable distance from Thomas.

Albert the Dud had some paramours too.  He never thought I knew about them but I did.  Now, I could not have cared less if Albert went out and Tom-catted about the entire Mid-West from a purely “I can’t stand that bastard” point of view.  But someone touching my things makes me see red and technically, at that juncture, Albert still belonged to me, as much as I want to cast him into Lake Erie.  That helium voiced bimbo with the pink hair and the ridiculous hat collection was positively livid about her diamond and ruby brooch being returned to her minus all the stones.  She kicked up a proper fuss, saying it was an heirloom, something worn by her mother.  Well, now it is something worn by Moufette, darling; I suggest you don’t leave me to clean up after you.

These days I don’t do much by way of fighting for a beau; I don’t need to.  When some new kitten comes sniffing around one of my stable, I give her the look – not a look, the look.  The fact is no one is worth me breaking a nail over but my rivals don’t know that.  Instead of any real effort, I slowly rise and stroke cavalry sword Thomas’ grandfather left him.  When the trollop stops shaking enough, she skidders away from whichever trophy she was trying to polish.  The truth is, had she pursued, I would have toasted the two of them and retired with a good book.  After all, lovers are like beach balls; they are too easy to replace to chase after them if they get away from you.

My point is, darlings, don’t become known as vengeful but leave them guessing as to how vengeful you might become.

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