Dweezil sat his desk with a pad of paper and a pen, trying to think up ways to motivate the family to move. This was not going to be easy. He drummed his claws on the desk as he connived ways to motivate Squigman. Mr. Squigman was a slug, a set in his ways, lazy slug. The only way to motivate him to move was with a stick of dynamite, or a rope tied securely around his legs and two burly cats hired to drag him, screaming and protesting, out of the house.
But wait, if Squigman was a lazy slug, Trixie certainly wasn't. So the way to motivate Squigman was to motivate Trixie. Now what would motivate her? A wonderful job opportunity at his chic cafe. She was currently a bar maid and he would just be willing to bet, she'd like a promotion, say to chief waitress. That was it, He offer her the job of chief waitress, the boss of all the other wait staff. That would get her securely in his corner.
"Now what about mother," he thought to himself. What would motivate her. His mother was only ten and still very attractive in a middle aged sort of way. What if he offered her the job of hostess and hinted that she would be in an excellent position to meet all sorts of gentlemen cats of a certain age. He smiled diabolically at the thought of just how fast his mother would find herself motivated to move.
That left Annabelle and she was just a kitten, so he could make up any number of exciting adventures she would be having in her new home town.
It was done. He would motivate the females and they would gang up on Squigman and he wouldn't have to do a thing.
"When you're doing the right thing, " he congratulated himself, "everything else just falls into place.
TO BE CONTINUED