"Mother Dweezil, " Squig gasped as he hefted in the last of her ten suitcases, boxes, valises and carry ons. "What do you have in these, bricks?"
"Oh just a few personal accessories and my favorite objets de art," she said airily waving her paw.
Squig figured that her few personal accessories were all kinds of hats, bonnets, and bows. The Dweezil nut had obviously not fallen to far from the tree. But what about that other group the objets de art
e. What were they? He puzzled it out until he knew. They were arty objects and arty objects were nothing but fancied up doodads. Dweezil for once was actually right. Lady cats came attached to doodads. And if the weight and number of boxes were any indication, this particular lady cat already had enough to festoon every inch of their house.
Scurrying over to Dweezil, he whispered, "Dweeze your mother is covered in doodads."
"What!" Dweezil said, extremely annoyed, "are you trying to insinuate about my mother."
"Those boxes," he whispered, "pointing to the pile in the hall," are crammed with doodads and when those doodads start procreating in the dark, our house is going to look like a place one of those TV hoarder experts will want to visit."
"How dare you say my mother is a hoarder and her priceless collection of objets de art are doodads. Those are very rare and valuable collectibles, things which obviously a very low and common cat such as yourself couldn't possibly understand. A cat whose taste in art runs to football posters and girly calendars."
"Oh yeah, well who's got the website, fat lady cats on bikes," bookmarked oh his computer?" Squig shot back, crossing his paws against his chest. "I guess that's your idea of first class art."
"Why you," Dweezil snarled pouncing on him.
"Grandmom," Annie said nervously looking up at Yvette, shouldn't you blow your whistle?
"Heavens no. They're having too much fun. So while they're sorting each other out, why don't you show me the bedrooms, so that I can pick mine."
TO BE CONTINUED.
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