That "new" cat is still here. I can feel him. I can smell him. Sometimes, I think I hear his yodeling. I stay in the home office downstairs and take naps in the cedar closet. After everyone but my mistress goes to bed, I come upstairs for Mommy/Kitty time. Mommy/Kitty time is the best. One of my scratching posts has disappeared, a suspicious circumstance.
I haven't gone batshit again, but I don't have to like this. Now I'm napping on the sofa. Downstairs is cool without the summer heat. Fur is warm enough. I have a cream-colored cross on my chest, and sometimes my sobriquet is "Sacred Kitty."
Maybe the Pope will adopt me. I've heard he likes cats. I love my mistress, and I know she's not responsible for bringing a new cat into MY HOUSE. How dare they? The thought makes my tail twitch.
At least I'm getting my treats regularly and there's always a little can of moist food in my dish when I trek upstairs in the evening. Good things come in small cans. Life has been stressful and a cat likes peace and quiet. Why do humans have such a hard time understanding that. Change is bad. Repeat after me. Change is bad.
Enough. Back to napping. Aloha.