The Case Of The Trapped Muskrat: Part II

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“I feel sick!” I had to remain calm or I would lose my cat treats.

“Don’t panic.” The Kontinental Kat kept his head.

“But my Savoy has stood us up! Now, I know she is not adverse to doing such a thing to me . . .” And as an aside, I added, “ . . . Sometimes, I think I annoy her . . . But she would never willingly treat you, her Boss, in this manner.” I knew this to be true.

“We’ll find her. But first, maybe we should find out what’s really happened. She may have, just, been detained?” The Boss looked on the bright side.

“Yes. You could be correct.” I picked up the phone and dialed her number. It rang and rang with no answer. I hung up and took a few deep breaths.

Right up until the door opened and a Puralator man came in and handed me a sealed envelope. I opened it with trepidation. There was a single piece of paper inside. I unfolded it and read,

Dear Dash,

If you want Savoy back you must give up everything!  First of all, stop telling the truth on your blog!  If you don’t, I’ll have my hackers destroy your accounts and reduce your influence so that you never get to entertain anyone and your past followers will forget who you are.

I will use my enormous amounts of money to destroy you and the True North Theatre.  We don’t need any of your ‘so-called humor’ in this universe! It’s all about the money and power we wield!

So, back off or you’ll never see Savoy again!



All my love,

Anonymous U. S. Citizen

What a dilemma! WTFLOOF was I supposed to do now?!!! 🙀🙀

The Kontinental Kat came over to me and rubbed his head against mine. “Don’t fret . . . We’ll get her back. I’ve never lost an agent yet and I don’t intend to ever lose one now.” He seemed determined.

“What should I do?” I was at a loss.

The Boss went to his desk and rummaged through the top drawer. He came back with a pile of papers and plopped them on my desk.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Your play.” He answered.

Looking at the title page. ‘The History of Tibbsdenio’ was, indeed, the play I had written for the Tibbs In The Park festival.

“I don’t understand.” I told him.

“Put it on-line. Let the people decided what you should do.” The Kontinental Kat had a great deal of respect and confidence in the cat community.

“But . . .” I knew this play had a theme about love and freedom being better than cruelty but would anybody else see it?

“If the Muskrat wants to destroy free speech, let the masses judge him and his businesses. It’s time to take the blinders off and show the billionaire Muskrats of this world, just who has the real power. And that we the people can make or ‘break’ them. When you have the opportunity to spread good fun and the joy of cats, and you try to suppress it, we will fight for what makes us laugh. Not be forced by the humourless creatures who don’t know how to enjoy life without demanding money from it.” The Kontinental Kat was wise beyond his years.

I set about getting my play on-line, via my blog. I posted it and waited for some feedback. It was up for a mere few hours before the hackers stole all my social media accounts and blocked the world from enjoying my humour. All this, in order to put me out of business and take away the fun of the joy of cats. 😼😼

*********

Hacking up is never much fun but I could not keep it in any longer. The stress of having your livelihood destroyed because of the truth was too much for me to take. And if I thought about my Savoy languishing in a den of iniquity and underage kitty bothering, it was just too much . . .

I ended this thought by hacking up merely foamy water. This was not normal! Before I could return to a stress-free life I had to get my Savoy back.

Luckily, the Boss invited Chief Inspector Magic and P. C. Pumps to the office. They entered and the Chief Inspector stood behind me while the police constable sat down. Pumpkin seemed to be distracted. He scrolled away on his phone.

“What’s bothering you?” I asked him.

“It’s this latest internet scandal. It’s gone viral . . .” He answered.

“What has? What scandal?” The Kontinental Kat inquired.

“There was this scathing blog about how a billionaire tech-rodent was trying to take over the world by destroying the humour of small brands and then all of a sudden it was gone. The people of the internet are in an uproar!” P. C. Pumps explained.

“Whose blog was it?” The Boss asked.

“Something called the Joy Of Cats.” P. C. Pumps looked it up on his phone.

“But that’s us! That’s me!” I yowled.

“What?!!” Both the policemen remarked at the same time.

“Yes. I posted my play, ‘The History of Tibbsdenio’ on my blog. It was all about how love will save the day over these poor, pathetic, unlovable, behemoth tech hooligans.” I confessed. “And to show how truly dangerous they are, the Muskrat has catnapped my Savoy and will probably do unmeowable things to damage her. You’ve got to help us!” I pleaded with the officials.

I have to admit a plan was quickly devised but I was lost in the drama of Savoy being catnapped and did not pay much attention to my part of it. Fortunately, I was asked to accompany P. C. Pumps to his real estate job. I suppose it was to distract me while cooler heads prevailed?

We reached the house and met Pumpkin’s brofur, Teddy. The Betts Brofurs had filled their home with apples, carrots and parsnips and lay them in a line leading right to a trap. I was told to hide behind a curtain with my paws full of cattails and I waited.

It took very little time between the door opening and the sounds of a nasty animal slobbering away at the food. I heard the cage rattle and I leapt out, slamming the door shut.

Then I began to pelt the trapped Muskrat with the cattails. Both Teddy and P. C. Pumpkin took turns trying to pull me away but I would not relent.

“Where’s my Savoy, you greedy rodent!” I continued to pummel the beady-eyed ball of fur!

Fortunately, Chief Inspector Magic and the Kontinental Kat burst into the house and finally all four of them pulled me away before I could inflict the kind of damage this animal really deserved.

Then the Kontinental Kat sent me away. As I walked down the driveway, I wondered where the rest of the police force was? After all, a crime of this magnitude should have involved the entire RCMP, shouldn’t it? I did think it was a bit weird when I noticed the Widow Patches sitting in one of the cars, though. Why would she be here?

*********

I went back to the theatre to prepare for this week’s play and to let the others deal with the evil Muskrat. As far as my Savoy’s safety was concerned, I was livid and prepared to do all manner of harm to that unconscionable rodent . I had to trust they would save her.

*********

Rehearsals of the play ‘Love’s Labour Won’ kept me occupied and were going remarkably well. I was still very distracted. So much so, that I did not even flinch when Ms. Catte Davis, the star, threw a ‘Diva tantrum’ about the Widow Patches wanting to make a few changes to the costumes. What did I care if there were wardrobe alterations for the ladies in the cast? So long as my Belovéd would be here, for me and everyone (but especially me), to see her in the frock.

Needless to meow, I was absolutely thrilled when Savoy showed up late for rehearsal. I ran to her and would not stop purring. I licked her head until she shoved me off her.

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” I asked my Belovéd in all seriousness.

“No, no . . . The Kontinental Kat, along with the police, broke into the Muskrat’s dungeon and released me. I’m fine. Now, get off me.”

*********

It wasn’t until the day before we were to begin the new play that I read in the newspapers about how the Muskrat was under investigation for illegal confinement and a charge of kitty bothering. The article went on to say that the Muskrat could not be found! My blood began to boil again! WTFLOOF?!!! We, actually, had him! How did he get away?

I continued reading about the claims by the police that they would be searching the Muskrat’s business files, as well, on allegations of deliberately quashing the truth on his social media platform.

Apparently, he went out of his way to harm certain small brands of humour, like the Joy Of Cats. And to quote the paper it said, ‘this fun-cat brand is a great source of humour not to be found anywhere within the Divided States of America. It is well worth a visit to their blog.’

Holy Smokes! This was a great boost for me. And I was so proud but no one mentioned this turn of events! How would I tell Savoy? This kind of bad news could be devastating.

Then I had a brilliant idea. If I could turn this disaster around and find the courage to do the one thing I had been reluctant to do, maybe now was the time to take the next step and ask Savoy to be my wife? 🙀🙀🙀

*********

I stood at the altar waiting for my bride-to-be to saunter down the aisle towards me. Her wedding dress was made by the Widow Patches out of . . . was that Muskrat fur? 🙀🙀🙀

The play ended with Sir Rocky and Catte Davis, also getting wed. This was the big Finalé scene of ‘Love’s Labour Won’, so while I got to marry my Belovéd, it was only within the confines of the play.

However, after opening night, there was a ‘real’ wedding backstage. Yes, Ms. Misha and Mr. Furgus, the box-office and stage managers, respectively, were married.

This cat community is the best. And filled with so much love. I am overjoyed to be a part of it! But this is not over with the Muskrat!

The End!

*If my work has made you laugh, momentarily allowed you to forget the state of the world, or snort tea onto a nearby surface, feel free to tip or donate.  Supporting writers and comedy is a noble act — like feeding a stray, except with fewer fleas and more encouragement.  Every contribution is greatly appreciated and helps keep the words, wit, and nonsense flowing.  And it may just indirectly fund future silliness.  I thank you in advance.  😻 . . . https://thejoyofcats.wordpress.com/1896-2/

*No Generative AI Training: Unauthorized uploading, data mining, ingestion, or use of this manuscript —in whole or in part—to train artificial intelligence technologies, machine learning models, or large language models is strictly prohibited.  No right is granted to use this text for synthetic content generation or algorithmic adaptation.  The Recipient agrees not to upload, input, or otherwise transmit the Work, or any portion thereof, into any generative artificial intelligence system, large language model, or consumer-facing AI tool (such as ChatGPT, Claude, or similar technologies) for any purpose, including editing, summarizing, evaluating, or machine learning training, without the Author’s prior express written consent. 

*Author’s Note: This blog was written in its entirety by a human — me — without the use of artificial intelligence. The only partial use of ai is on the photos, as I am no artist.  What I do is akin to photoshopping to enhance a visual of the storytelling.  If you steal my humorous writing to train your plagiarism software woe betide you.  We all know ai (& the billionaires who are pushing it) have no sense of humour and therefore won’t get how funny it is when I sue your a$$es for copyright infringement.

Copyright ©️ 2026 By Judith Wiberg

The Case Of The Trapped Muskrat: Part I

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adorable cats, amusing blogs, amusing cats, cat adventures, cat blogger, cat blogs, cat stories, catladyblogger, cats, crazy cats, crazycatladyblogs, cute cat blogs, Cute cats, fabulous cats, fat cats, fun blogs, fun cats, funfictionblogger, funny, funny cat blog, funny cat blogs, funny cats, funny pets, heavenly cats, ingenius cats, love, love those cats, mystery cats, new ventures, pet detective, pet detectives, silly cats, smart cats, writing community

This lost Tibbspearean play, ‘Love’s Labour Won’, was pretty darn good. It was so much better than the play I wrote for the True North Theatre. This one could have, actually, been written by the Bard Tibbs.

It, absolutely, had the feel and essence of all the original plays we had performed over the summer. And I, as the only one with the knowledge and skills needed to promote the fact that the ‘Tibbs In The Park’ festival was up and running again was fully prepared to entertain the masses.

Rehearsals were going so exceedingly well, that we all had a little extra time on our paws. My Savoy took to helping out the Widow Patches in the wardrobe department. Together they worked on some unique designs for the costumes.

The stars of the play, Ms. Catte Davis and Sir Rocky, of the Hudson, spent their free time doing promotional videos to advertise the festival’s return.

And I had been assigned to help Ms. Misha, the box-office manager, with getting the message out that we were, indeed, ready for an appreciative audience again.

“Once Sir Rocky and Ms. Davis finish their videos, we’ll get them on-line and sent out to all the platforms. The new, hot places are Eh!, Gander and CanadaPlatform. The old U. S. based platforms are fast becoming boringly obsolete. They aren’t in the least bit social anymore and they’re so full of ads, it’s disheartening.” I explained to Ms. Misha. I had the pulse of the future and it lay north of the 49th parallel.

“So long as we get ‘bums on seats’, I’ll be happy.” Ms. Misha replied. She was very good at her job.

“I think that will be a given. With our publicity machine and this lost play, the finalé is bound to be the hit of the season.” I continued to be optimistic.

“Yes, I saw most of the play. It’s, absolutely, the best thing I’ve ever seen. I, particularly, love the ending . . . All those weddings!” Ms. Misha hugged herself as she thought about the big finish.

“You’re a bit of a romantic, aren’t you Ms. Misha?” I smiled.

“Weddings are a special favourite of mine, I must meow.” She answered dreamily.

“Are they?” I found this weird, but some felines had their heads in the clouds about marriage.

“Oh yes . . . I’m hoping to get wed soon, myself.” She grinned.

This explained a lot. “And who is the lucky Tom, if I might inquire?” I wondered.

Before she could answer me, an official looking Tom walked up on stage and was directed to Steve-o and Harvey Spielcat, the brothers in charge of the festival and play. All three had a short conversation, ending with Harvey yelling, “Everybody stop!”

Well, that kind of thing is bound to send us cats into a bit of a tailspin. Cats ran in every direction.

Savoy and Patches, of course, ran towards the ruckus. Brave cats, that they were.

“What is it?” Savoy asked.

“We’re being shut down!” Steve-o answered, his meow laced with anger.

“We’ve got a ‘cease and desist’ order and until we get it sorted out, the play has got to be cancelled!” 🙀🙀🙀

*********

Savoy and I went, right away, to inform the Kontinental Kat. This was definitely something he should know about.

As we entered the office, it was to find the Boss with Chief Inspector Magic, P. C. Pumpkin, along with another sandy coloured Persian, and brother, Medical Examiner Teddy.

P. C. Pumps was meowing, “Yes, I have a real estate license. I need the part-time job to make ends meet. I have a lot of dietary requirements to keep fit and healthy. Can’t do that on a P. C.’s wage.” He nodded at the others.

The Kontinental Kat interrupted their conversation when he saw us come into the office. “What are you two doing here?” He asked.

“We’ve been ordered to ‘cease and desist’.” Savoy answered.

“WTFLOOF?” The Boss could not hide his surprise.

“Apparently, the Muskrat is suing us about the lost play. He claims he owns the rights to it.” I elaborated. I knew copyright laws.

“But that isn’t . . .” The chubby, black cat was annoyed. “We’re going to need some legal advice.” He glanced towards the police.

“Don’t look at us!” Chief Inspector Magic shook his head. “Find someone who knows the law!”

*********

So, Savoy and I were sent off to the building across the street. The Kontinental Kat’s lawyer kept an office there. We waited in the outer office until the famous attorney, Clarence ‘Lumpy’ Darrow, called us into his domain.

“Should I confess, my Belovéd?” I asked. “We don’t want Mr. Tibbs’ good name and standing to be questioned, after all.”

“That’s an interesting idea.” My Savoy answered.

Before we could get much further with our plan of action, we were shown into the lawyer’s inner sanctum.

“What can I do for you two?” He asked. “I can whip up a quick prenup, if that’s what you’re here for.”

“NO!” Savoy seemed annoyed by the suggestion. “We’re with the Kontinental Kat Agency. Our Boss meowed to you about the case, I believe . . .” Savoy got down to business.

The attorney got on his computer and searched his files. He stared at the screen for a moment and then said, “Ah, yes . . . The Intellectual Property case. If we can drag this on a bit, it should bring in quite a bit of dosh!” He murmured to himself. “I’ve read the complaint and while it may take some time, it will be an easy win. All you have to do is prove that this . . . Tibbs, feline . . . actually wrote the play. It shouldn’t be too difficult. Which one of you is Tibbs?” Mr. Lumpy looked from me to Savoy.

“That’s my name . . . But I didn’t write this play. Mr. Tibbs is a distant relative of mine.” I admitted.

“Have him come in to see me and we’ll straighten this out in no time.” Mr. Lumpy kept it all very professional.

“That’s not so easy.” I added.

“Why not?” He asked. “We’ll subpoena him if he doesn’t want to go to court.”

“That might be a bit difficult.” I continued.

“He can’t defy a subpoena. He isn’t the President of the Divided States, is he?” The lawyer blanched at the thoughts.

“No. He’s OTRB.” Savoy come out with it, bluntly.

“Oh . . .” Mr. Lumpy finally understood the dilemma. He gave this new twist some thought.

“But what if someone else did write the play? And what if, this other Tom, wanted to remain anonymous?” Savoy asked the questions that I, certainly, was too afraid to ask.

“It can’t be done.” The legal mind returned. “Everyone involved will have to own up.”

I grabbed my head. This was not looking good for us. Why, oh why . . . didn’t we, just, cover up for the writer of this Tibbspearean play?

*********

I went back to the Kontinental Kat Agency in a sombre mood. Mr. Myer Michaels was with the Boss and he had, obviously, taken some legal advice too.

“I hope you can prove where you got the play from, KK. Because I’m not going to jail for you or anyone! If I have to testify, I’ll squeal like a stuffed pig about where I got the play.”

Holy Smokes . . . This situation was getting worse and worse!

*********

Then the Unthinkable Happened!

After Mr. Michaels left the office, I took it upon myself to do a bit of on-line research for the play. Just to see how the publicity was going and if there was a buzz being generated. What I found stunned me. Crickets! Not one peep from anywhere on the internet. In fact, it looked like someone high up, in the tech world, was stifling our efforts. Then a screen came up on the True North theatre’s website . . . ‘Hacker’s Paradise Strikes Again! The Lost Play Is A Fake!’

We’d been hacked. And now no one was able to see us! Rumours and accusations abound! And now everyone knew the dilemma with which we found ourselves.

And, as if that weren’t bad enough, P. C. Pumps came into the office with the Boss meowing, “It’s done but I have to tell you what else happened . . .” The police constable followed the chubby, black cat closely. So closely, in fact, that when the Boss went to his desk, he nearly sat on the uniformed Tom. Luckily, the sandy coloured Persian ran out from under him before he got squashed.

“What happened?” The Kontinental Kat asked while taking his place behind the desk.

“While we were closing the deal, the Muskrat had your other agent there with him. And he was . . . how shall I put this?” P. C. Pumps searched for the right meows, “ . . . He was nibbling on her ears and began licking her head. It was quite disturbing. Then he insisted they were going to repopulate the earth with Muskrat kittens!” P. C. Pumpkin shivered at the thoughts of these mongrel babies.

I leapt to my paws. All thoughts of hackers and what they’d done to me, went out of my head. Savoy’s safety was at stake here.

Luckily, the door opened and in sauntered Savoy. I ran to her and threw my paws around her neck.

“Savoy!” I licked all the Muskrat scent off her.

She shoved me off her.

“What happened?” The Kontinental Kat inquired with relief.

“Nothing happened. All is going according to plan.” Savoy’s eyes sparkled.

“Excellent.” The Boss grinned. “Shall we meet up again tomorrow morning to form phase II of the plan?”

Ever get the feeling, you’re out of the loop?

*********

I entered the office early the next day, bright eyed and bushy tailed. The Boss and I waited and waited for our colleague so we could come up with a plan to trap the Muskrat. Savoy did not show up! 🙀🙀🙀

End of Part I

*Holy Smokes! WTFLOOF?!! If anything untoward has happened to my Savoy, there will be hell to pay and Muskrats to hunt! I will not stop until the rodent is destroyed! Never underestimate the reaction of a mild-mannered kitty!

*If my work has made you laugh, momentarily allowed you to forget the state of the world, or snort tea onto a nearby surface, feel free to tip or donate.  Supporting writers and comedy is a noble act — like feeding a stray, except with fewer fleas and more encouragement.  Every contribution is greatly appreciated and helps keep the words, wit, and nonsense flowing.  And it may just indirectly fund future silliness.  I thank you in advance.  😻 . . . https://thejoyofcats.wordpress.com/1896-2/

*No Generative AI Training: Unauthorized uploading, data mining, ingestion, or use of this manuscript —in whole or in part—to train artificial intelligence technologies, machine learning models, or large language models is strictly prohibited.  No right is granted to use this text for synthetic content generation or algorithmic adaptation.  The Recipient agrees not to upload, input, or otherwise transmit the Work, or any portion thereof, into any generative artificial intelligence system, large language model, or consumer-facing AI tool (such as ChatGPT, Claude, or similar technologies) for any purpose, including editing, summarizing, evaluating, or machine learning training, without the Author’s prior express written consent. 

*Author’s Note: This blog was written in its entirety by a human — me — without the use of artificial intelligence. The only partial use of ai is on the photos, as I am no artist.  What I do is akin to photoshopping to enhance a visual of the storytelling.  If you steal my humorous writing to train your plagiarism software woe betide you.  We all know ai (& the billionaires who are pushing it) have no sense of humour and therefore won’t get how funny it is when I sue your a$$es for copyright infringement.

Copyright ©️ 2026 By Judith Wiberg

The Case Of The Sinking Ship: Part II

Tags

adorable cats, amusing blogs, amusing cats, cat adventures, cat blogger, cat blogs, cat stories, catladyblogger, cats, crazy cats, crazycatladyblogs, cute cat blogs, Cute cats, fabulous cats, fat cats, fun blogs, fun cats, funfictionblogger, funny, funny cat blog, funny cat blogs, funny cats, funny pets, heavenly cats, ingenius cats, love, love those cats, mystery cats, new ventures, pet detective, pet detectives, silly cats, smart cats, writing community

“This is humiliating.” I hung my head in shame as I sat, with my Belovéd, in the Kontinental Kat Agency office.

“What is?” She, honestly, seemed oblivious to the fact that we had just been unceremoniously made redundant from the True North Theatre and its ‘Tibbs In The Park’ festival.

“I’ve never been fired before. I don’t like this feeling. The arrogant, filthy rich should not be able to depose of their enemies so cruelly.” I meowed my opinion on the state of affairs in our world, at the moment.

Savoy smiled at me in a beatific way. (My Lord, she was lovely). “You know working at the theatre was only part of what we were doing. We’re detectives and just doing a job.” She reasoned.

“I suppose when you look at it that way, it isn’t so bad.” I gave it some thought. “But we, never, actually finished the job we were meant to complete.” I had no idea what that job was, ultimately, but I know we hadn’t got the culprit because no one had gone to jail.

“This might, all, be part of the bigger picture?” Savoy suggested.

Could this be so? The Kontinental Kat had never explained what our mission was, at the theatre. We, just, kept getting caught up in the mysteries that seemed to appear, on a weekly basis. (Like we were living life in Cabot Cove on Murder She Wrote! 🙀). Surely, there was not some overriding conundrum that connected all of the little peccadillos that had occurred over the summer? No . . . That was climbing aboard the VIA rail train to Conspiracy Theory, Yukon Territory. “I hope the Boss, sees it that way.” I observed.

Just then the Kontinental Kat skipped into the office like he was chasing the reflections on the walls. (Why hadn’t I noticed them?!) 🙀🙀

“You’re in a good mood, Boss. Unfortunately, we have some dire news for you.” Savoy began and looked at me to finish her confession.

She might have wanted me to continue but I noticed the wall reflections now and took up the chase. As a number of books fell to the floor, both of my work colleagues yelled, “DASH!” I refused to be distracted and continued to stare at the wall.

“Since he won’t tell you, I will.” Savoy, being the bravest feline on earth, began. “We’ve . . . All of us, at the True North Theatre . . . have been fired.” She waited for the Boss to react.

I, finally, pulled my attention away from the reflections and looked to the Kontinental Kat. To my surprise, the chubby, black cat began to laugh. He continued to shake from the belly up, until he rolled on the floor. “WTFLOOF, Boss?” I was confused by this strange response.

“Not to worry, my fellow sleuths . . . This could work in our favour.” The Kontinental Kat rose and sat at his desk. He wiped his eyes.

“How?” Savoy asked.

“Well, we might, just, put on a show of our own.” The Kontinental Kat started to empty his pockets. “You see, in my quest to suss out the Muskrat, I found something quite interesting.” The Boss removed, what looked like a script, from his jacket pocket.

“What’s that?” I could not see how any of this would help us.

“I found the missing play by the Bard Tibbs.” The Boss held up the script.

*********

The next day, Savoy and I went back to the outdoor theatre to clean out our dressing rooms. It was only right that we should get our stuff. I had a few pens and paper to pick up while Savoy had her make-up, fur extensions, various girdles, bustiers and wigs. I carried her boxes of paraphernalia while she carried my pens.

We passed by the wardrobe department and Savoy meowed, “I’d like to meow ‘good-bye’ to the Widow Patches.” I thought she was pushing things too far but, as usual, I could refuse, my Belovéd, nothing.

When we entered the room, it was to find the Muskrat passed out on the floor. Patches remained attached to her nip hookah pipe and she puffed away.

“Is he dead?” I motioned towards the rodent as I placed Savoy’s boxes of stuff on the floor.

“I wish . . . He’s depleting my nip supply just like he’s done with humour and decency within his companies.” Patches answered.

“You sound like you loath him?” I observed.

“Doesn’t everyone?” Patches returned.

“Why are you staying on, then?” Savoy asked her auntie.

“Someone has to entertain the masses.” Patches reasoned and continued to inhale from the catnip hookah.

“I didn’t know Muskrat’s were prone to nip?” I pointed to the prone rodent again.

“They aren’t, really, but he needed a bit of calming down. I added a little Warfarin to his portion.” Patches smiled.

“Why would he need to calm down?” I wondered.

“He’s angry with the writer of the ‘Species’ magazine article that portrayed him as a tyrannical maniac.” Patches puffed away.

“Ah, yes . . . Do you know who it was that wrote that article?” Savoy inquired with a note of innocence.

“Whoever is was, they really ticked, the Muskrat, off. They should be congratulated.” I added with a bit of a laugh.

“Congratulations.” Patches held out her paw towards me.

“You mean . . . Him?” Savoy pointed towards me with, I must admit, a nod of admiration.

“What are you two on about?” I asked.

“You wrote it.” Patches insisted.

“I did not!” I was adamant.

“The article came from your computer.” Patches grinned.

*********

Unbeknownst to us, the Kontinental Kat made a visit to the office of the Strong and Free Production Co. He stood in Mr. Myer Michaels luxurious office. Mr. Michaels sat at his desk wondering what the chubby, black cat was up to.

“Plans are afoot . . . or should I meow, plans are apaw? I advise you to be prepared to ride in on your trusty steed, to save the day.” The Kontinental Kat slapped a stack of papers on his desk.

Mr. Michaels smiled.

*********

Before Patches could explain how I had anything to do with the article about the Muskrat, the weasly animal began to stir. Then the Box Office Manager, Ms. Misha, entered the room, asking, “Is he here?”

We all looked to the semi-conscious muskrat.

“There you are . . . I have some grisly news, Sir! I’ve just been informed that Mr. Michaels has acquired the rights to the lost Tibbs play and because of that, our ship is sinking. Since you cancelled the festival everyone is returning their tickets for refunds. No one is coming to see your ai version of the lost play. It seems the audience wants material written by ‘real’ cats not robot ones.” Ms. Misha spelled out the situation for the rodent who thought he knew better than the poor peasants.

We stood amongst a stunned silence. The Muskrat sat up and blinked those beady eyes a couple of times before his hackers bleated their way into the room.

“Nobody is coming to my BIG SHOW?!” The Muskrat seemed unable to grasp the reality of the situation.

“They’re jealous of your wealth! But we can fix this . . .” Dario, the head hacker said. “We can make it look like your show is a sell out.”

“Do it.” The Muskrat agreed.

*********

Opening night at the Muskrat’s X Festival, saw an empty audience which seemed appropriate as there were no cast or crew to put on a show. Only bots trolling the entire event.

“Word got out that this show was irrelevant and fake entertainment.” Dario approached the Muskrat cautiously.

“How?” The Muskrat demanded.

“How, what?” Dario asked.

“How did word ‘get out’ about the show?” The Muskrat wanted answers.

“It went viral. Something called the Joy Of Cats brand started posting the truth about you.” Dario slipped up by telling it like it was.

“I want the cat or cats who thinks they’re more popular than me and crush them! We’ll take away their accounts and stop them from getting the truth out . . . I mean, stop them from getting their fake news out!” The Muskrat lit up a nip joint and threw the match at the hacker who ran off aflame.

The night was an unmitigated flop. And although it was deemed SRO (standing room only) because the Muskrat had paid for all of the tickets, it was a major failure after real writers panned the event.

*********

The papers, the next day, were full of the misfired fiasco. This was the biggest box office flop since Heaven’s Gate.

*********

In the office the next day, Savoy read the papers to us. It was sad. As much as I disliked the Muskrat and all he stood for, he ruined a great thing by making the Tibbs In The Park festival a place of chaos and strife. Instead of a stage of fun loving entertainment, where like-minded creatures (and more importantly, cats) could congregate and share some fun, he turned it into a platform of negativity. I shook my head. How the mighty have fallen.

The Kontinental Kat looked towards the door of the office when a knock was heard. In walked Mr. Myer Michaels. He heard the last part of Savoy’s readings, “‘I’ll get the Tom who did this to me.’ The Muskrat was quoted as saying. He hasn’t been seen since . . .”

“Ha!” Mr. Michael’s let out. “The Muskrat has abandoned the sinking ship and sold the theatre to me. I got it for a song. He, truly, is a pathetic excuse for a businessrat. That’s why I’m here . . . I need to put on a play quickly and get the whole ‘Tibbs In The Park’ cast and crew together again. Can you do it?”

The Kontinental Kat grinned. Savoy and I got on the phones. We were back in business.

*********

In a castle dungeon, on Billionaire Row, the Muskrat sat amongst a plethora of torture equipment used on his hackers.

“This is not over!” He squealed.

The End

*If my work has made you laugh, momentarily allowed you to forget the state of the world, or snort tea onto a nearby surface, feel free to tip or donate.  Supporting writers and comedy is a noble act — like feeding a stray, except with fewer fleas and more encouragement.  Every contribution is greatly appreciated and helps keep the words, wit, and nonsense flowing.  And it may just indirectly fund future silliness.  I thank you in advance.  😻 . . . https://thejoyofcats.wordpress.com/1896-2/

*No Generative AI Training: Unauthorized uploading, data mining, ingestion, or use of this manuscript —in whole or in part—to train artificial intelligence technologies, machine learning models, or large language models is strictly prohibited.  No right is granted to use this text for synthetic content generation or algorithmic adaptation.  The Recipient agrees not to upload, input, or otherwise transmit the Work, or any portion thereof, into any generative artificial intelligence system, large language model, or consumer-facing AI tool (such as ChatGPT, Claude, or similar technologies) for any purpose, including editing, summarizing, evaluating, or machine learning training, without the Author’s prior express written consent. 

*Author’s Note: This blog was written in its entirety by a human — me — without the use of artificial intelligence. The only partial use of ai is on the photos, as I am no artist.  What I do is akin to photoshopping to enhance a visual of the storytelling.  If you steal my humorous writing to train your plagiarism software woe betide you.  We all know ai (& the billionaires who are pushing it) have no sense of humour and therefore won’t get how funny it is when I sue your a$$es for copyright infringement.

Copyright ©️ 2026 By Judith Wiberg

The Case Of The Sinking Ship: Part I

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The money people in the industry are the ones who think they are all important. Yet, in life, and especially art, they overestimate their importance on a regular basis. So, needless to meow, we the cast, were all a bit nervous when Harvey Spielcat, the producer of the Tibbs In The Park festival, called a meeting at centre stage for the entire company. What could it mean?

Mr. Spielcat took his place in the limelight. He revelled in the attention. Money fell from every one of his pockets as he paced the stage, for all to hear and see.

“I’ve got a terrific announcement to make for all of you . . . Due to my gre . . . great need to eat and live the life of a king, I have decided to sell off my production company and leave you all to the future of the industry, run by that paragon of success, The Muskrat.” Mr. Spielcat stood as if expecting a round of applause but all he received was a stunned silence.

He scurried off the stage to be replaced by the lopping gait of a creepy, suit-wearing Muskrat. The animal attempted to smile but immediately wiped any traces of pleasure from his features. It was almost as if to show joy was some kind of weakness?

I looked around the stage to see the reactions of my fellow thespians. None of them were pleased.

“This is big everyone. I’m here to save your lives and your jobs. There is no one as accomplished as I am at making a company profitable again.” The Muskrat began and I think he actually believed the nonsense he was spouting?

Steve-o Spielcat, our director, stepped forward, “You have no idea what entertainment is about.” He meowed with conviction.

The Muskrat was startled by this fair assessment. “Huh . . . ?” He looked at the director with surprise.

“You may understand technology but you do not know an audience. What do you plan to do? Replace everyone with ai generated cators?” Steve-o continued.

“You’re fired!” The Muskrat fumed and dismissed the great director.

“You can’t, just, fire the director!” Ms. Catte Davis meowed up. Her tail puffed up like nobody’s business.

“He’s a vital piece of the entertainment puzzle.” Sir Rocky added.

“Fired! Fired!” The Muskrat got rid of our lead cator and catress without an ounce of remorse. “Anyone else got anything to meow?” The Muskrat blinked his beady little eyes at all of us.

Now, a muskrat blinking at you, does not have the same meaning as when a cat blinks at anyone else. Our blinks are full of love. A Muskrat’s blink is full of malice and hate which comes from the place most animals house their hearts. I suspect that the hearts of muskrat’s would be closer to their anuses?

“Now, let me get back to what I have planned for the rest of the Tibbs In The Park festival . . . First of all, we won’t make many changes. But we will bring in more free speech. And anyone who doesn’t agree with that way of thinking, will be fired. The goal will be to make as much money for me as possible. So, anyone who wants to donate their paycheques to me will be sure to keep their jobs. Otherwise, you might find yourselves out with the trash.” The Muskrat was, indeed, serious. He never once cracked a smile. “We’ve found a lost play called . . .” He snapped his fingers at one of the Brazilian sheep hackers behind him. When the South American ovine didn’t produce an answer quick enough, the Santa Inêz was fired too. The Muskrat moved on, “ . . . It doesn’t matter what it’s called. We’ll have to change it to something better anyway. Something with an ‘X’ in it. But get ready for the spectacle we’ll make of the opening night. I have furriends in high places. We may get the President of the Divided States to attend.”

Most of us hung our heads. Then to my utter shock I heard the melodious lilt of my Belovéd ask, “We’ll need a director. You can’t put on a play without one.”

The Muskrat turned those shifty eyes on my love and I was ready to pounce in order to protect her, if need be. Instead, he grabbed the first paw he came to and pulled the cat in front of everyone. “Here’s your new director.”

We all gasped as Patches stood at centre stage.

*********

In the Kontinental Kat Agency office, the next day, Savoy and I reported the goings-on to our Boss.

“Then he made Patches the director . . . Can you believe that?” Savoy finished the tale. “She’s the wardrobe mistress and knows nothing about directing plays!”

“This is disturbing on so many levels.” The Kontinental Kat absorbed all the information. “And I know for a fact, that this new ‘lost’ play, he’s on about, is bogus. Tibbs did NOT write it.”

I could not help but meet Savoy’s eyes. We both knew the truth behind the play. You see, I had written it. I did it with the best intentions, of course, but we did not want to inform the Boss about this tiny fact.

“You two keep an eye on the others while I investigate this Muskrat character. He seems well dodgy to me.” The Kontinental Kat was on the case.

I heaved a sigh of relief. If the Boss was to concentrate on exposing the Muskrat, the author of the ‘lost’ play (namely, me) would escape further prosecution.

*********

Savoy and I went back to the theatre. We found Patches on the stage doing her best to direct the latest play. She, obviously, needed help. Just as I was about to make a suggestion, the Muskrat came storming onto the stage to join us, followed by his band of hackers. He held the script up in the air and screamed, “We cannot do this play! It’s filled with peasant propaganda! I mean . . . look at the ending . . . the rich guy is the evil one! I can’t have an audience believe that. Billionaires are the only ones who count in this world!”

“You can’t change a Tibbs play.” I exclaimed before I realized I had opposed him. Holy Smokes! Those beady eyes nearly flayed me alive.

“What?” The Muskrat trudged towards me.

“I think we should all have a quick nip break.” Patches intervened and led the Muskrat off the stage.

I wiped my brow. Another close call.

*********

Savoy and I remained on the stage with the Brazilian hackers, who for once did not follow their leader, and before I could shuffle us both away from these vile creatures, one of them approached us.

“You seem to be talented, Dash. These changes that the Muskrat wants . . . are they possible?” It seemed a reasonable inquiry.

“Anything is possible with an imagination and a bit of humour.” I answered plainly.

They had a bit of a pow-wow and the head hacker came back to us with, “We don’t know what this ‘humour’ thing is, that you’re meowing about? But could you email us the changes you’d make for the play?” His attempt at a cat purr was pathetic. I had no intentions of writing anything for them.

“You could always use ai but Dash will do it!” I heard Savoy offer.

My head nearly exploded!

*********

Savoy went in search of Patches to return her to rehearsal while I set about to work on the changes I’d make to the play. I worked on the set up for the evil rich character when Patches entered the room with Savoy right behind her.

Savoy meowed to Patches, “The Muskrat was high as a kite. He couldn’t even hold up his end of a conversation. How much nip did you give him?”

“He, obviously, has a problem but it could be useful” Patches turned to me and asked, “What are you doing?”

“Changing the play. In this version, the rich tyrant is the hero. But I’m not up to that part yet. I’m still describing how awful billionaires are.” I answered. I, honestly, wished I could stop where I was. It was the truth, after all.

“You’re late for rehearsals.” Patches meowed as she looked at her watch.

Both Savoy and I raced off to the stage. Unbeknownst to us, Patches read my work and sent off an email.

*********

By the end of the week, our rehearsals were going quite well. Then on the Wednesday before Friday’s opening night, all of us cators were joined onstage by the Muskrat and his team of hackers. They handed out a revised version of the script.

“What’s this?” Patches asked.

“My Boys have fixed the play.” The Muskrat told her with some pride.

“You fixed it? How?” Patches asked as she scanned the script.

“With ai. We’ve made it, so much better.” The head hacker replied.

We all had a quick read through. I was a tad annoyed that I had spent my precious time and imagination on changes when all they did was send it through ai. I had to admit some of the changes were fine but most of them were horrendous. Not least of which was because they glorified cruelty, dishonesty and abhorrent behaviour.

Before I could refuse to act in such a loathsome example of entertainment, Savoy joined us, holding a copy of ‘Species’, the theatre’s #1 industry magazine.

“Listen to this everyone . . .” Savoy opened the magazine and began reading, “ . . . The latest scuttlebutt from our favourite outdoor theatre season is that the takeover of the True North Production Company, is a complete disaster. The Muskrat, an animal with no qualifications, is now running the company (into the ground, by all accounts). He is reported to be a tyrannical idiot who fires anyone who doesn’t agree with him or, Cat forbid, is actually humorous. Take stock, fur furriends in the industry, if this Muskrat isn’t stopped soon, humour will become as extinct as common sense.” Savoy stopped reading. You could hear a pin drop. We all turned to our notorious new boss.

The Muskrat’s beady little eyes turned a blood shot red and he began stomping up and down the stage shouting, “I want the head of whoever wrote that! It, obviously, came from someone within these walls! If no one owns up . . . You’re all fired!”

End of Part I

*What a turn of events! Will the Muskrat be successful without the cators? Will Dash get caught as the writer of the scathing article? Will Savoy come to the rescue, once again? Stay tuned, for Part II, to find out what happens next!

*If my work has made you laugh, momentarily allowed you to forget the state of the world, or snort tea onto a nearby surface, feel free to tip or donate.  Supporting writers and comedy is a noble act — like feeding a stray, except with fewer fleas and more encouragement.  Every contribution is greatly appreciated and helps keep the words, wit, and nonsense flowing.  And it may just indirectly fund future silliness.  I thank you in advance.  😻 . . . https://thejoyofcats.wordpress.com/1896-2/

*No Generative AI Training: Unauthorized uploading, data mining, ingestion, or use of this manuscript —in whole or in part—to train artificial intelligence technologies, machine learning models, or large language models is strictly prohibited.  No right is granted to use this text for synthetic content generation or algorithmic adaptation.  The Recipient agrees not to upload, input, or otherwise transmit the Work, or any portion thereof, into any generative artificial intelligence system, large language model, or consumer-facing AI tool (such as ChatGPT, Claude, or similar technologies) for any purpose, including editing, summarizing, evaluating, or machine learning training, without the Author’s prior express written consent. 

*Author’s Note: This blog was written in its entirety by a human — me — without the use of artificial intelligence. The only partial use of ai is on the photos, as I am no artist.  What I do is akin to photoshopping to enhance a visual of the storytelling.  If you steal my humorous writing to train your plagiarism software woe betide you.  We all know ai (& the billionaires who are pushing it) have no sense of humour. My work speaks for itself.

Copyright ©️ 2026 By Judith Wiberg

The Case Of The Missing Play: Part II

Tags

adorable cats, amusing blogs, amusing cats, cat adventures, cat blogger, cat blogs, cat books, cat stories, catladyblogger, cats, crazy cats, crazycatladyblogs, cute cat blogs, Cute cats, fabulous cats, fat cats, fun blogs, fun cats, funfictionblogger, funny, funny cat blog, funny cat blogs, funny cats, funny pets, heavenly cats, ingenius cats, love, love those cats, mystery cats, new ventures, pet detective, pet detectives, silly cats, smart cats, writing community

When last we met, Savoy had found something in the wardrobe department so shocking she nearly gave up tuna! 🙀

And what did she find, you may ask . . . ?

Yep, that’s right . . . The missing Patches!

*********

The next day, at the office, Savoy filled, the Kontinental Kat and myself, in.

“So, Patches was there all the time?” The Boss asked.

My tummy rumbled rather loudly and I made a few raucous retching noises but managed to keep my breakfast down, to everyone’s relief.

“Are you going to be okay?” Savoy gave me a wonderful look of concern.

I admit, the glance I returned to her was full of loving admiration.

She ignored my feeble mooning and answered the chubby, black cat’s question. “Yes. She’s been at the theatre the whole time. Patches didn’t want the Mounties after her. No criminal does.” Savoy reiterated Patches’ biggest fear.

“The RCMP don’t bother with petty crimes like local nip dealing. Those misdemeanours are up to Chief Inspector Magic and P. C. Pumpkin . . .” The Kontinental Kat explained.

I began to gag and hack again.

“ . . . The Mounties only deal with international hardened criminals and fraudsters. You know, internet hackers from Brazil and such.” The Boss furrowed his brows at me.

I, immediately, ceased hacking. I did not want the Mounties on my a** either.

“Not that kind of hacking, Dash. He means the vile, cat-hating, sheep of the South American country who have no scruples whatsoever.” Savoy explained.

There was a knock on the door and the Kontinental Kat motioned for us to hide under the desk once more. I was pleased to spend more ‘alone time’ with my Belovéd, as we dove for the safe space.

The door opened and the meow of Harvey Spielcat resonated throughout. “Have you got it yet?” He asked, his meow dripping with curiosity.

“We have. And you’ll be happy to know that all will return to normal forthwith.” The Kontinental Kat replied.

“Is it as good as it’s reported to be?” Mr. Spielcat wanted to know.

“What do you mean, ‘good’?” The Boss was confused.

“The play. The missing play that you found . . . Is it as good as they say? Will it save the festival?” Mr. Spielcat waited for an answer.

“Oh, you meant . . . ?”

I’d never seen the Kontinental Kat squirm (and honestly, since I was hiding under the desk, I technically wasn’t seeing him now) but his voice held that slightly panicked tone.

He continued, “I . . . I . . . haven’t had a read through as of yet. My agents are on it though.” The Boss seemed to be digging in deeper.

“Phew . . . I, really, thought I was going to have to sell the company to a trillionaire, lowlife, degenerate scumbag who thrives on nothing but a stroked ego and greed.” Mr. Spielcat wiped his forelock. “If things don’t pick up soon, I might have to go that route anyway.”

“That seems like a rather harsh solution.” The chubby, black cat observed.

“You’ll let me know when I can collect the script, won’t you?” The producer asked. He was laser-focused on his objective.

“Fear not. The Kontinental Kat Agency will get their man. Or in this case, ‘get the missing play’.” And with that the Boss escorted the client out of the office. He closed and locked the door. Then meowed, “What are we going to do? You two better find that missing play!”

Savoy and I crawled out from under the desk. I, immediately, let loose a giant nip-trifle hairball. I was still feeling the effects of the rehearsals for the play, ‘Trifle For Trifle’.

*********

We went back to the theatre and I entered the wardrobe department, to find Patches and Savoy beavering away with pen and paper.

“What are you two doing?” I asked.

“I’m about to light up. Care for a nip doobie?” Patches needed a rest. One giant inhale finished off her stogie and she promptly fell asleep.

“What’s going on, my Belovéd?” I turned to the love of my life.

“We’re writing a play.” Was the answer.

To meow that I was hurt, would be telling a lie. “Why didn’t you ask me to help? I’ve been known to wield a pen for the amusement of the world every now and then.” I blew my own horn. I had to have a seat as the fumes from Patches’ muscle relaxant affected my tummy. Outrageous noises emanated from my belly area.

Savoy noticed my discomfort and moved away from me. She continued to meow, “How about you write the missing play and I go in search of your poisoner?” She suggested.

This seemed like a terrific idea. How she came up with these things, had me stumped. I picked up the pen and got down to it. “Could you let Marilyn know, I’ve been detained.” I called over my shoulder as Savoy left the room.

*********

Savoy ended up in the orchestra pit. She knew Marilyn Meowroe was a flirt but why she focused on the grey and white cat, was a total mystery. Savoy heard the commotion before joining three cats. Marilyn and Sarah Furnhardt hissed at each other. They stood between the black, sackbutt player, Dancer. He grinned inanely at the hissing fit the two felines participated in. When the claws came out and the felines began rolling around on the floor, sending fur flying through the air, she finally reached them.

“Stay away from him, you hacking poisoner!” Marilyn hissed.

“He’s mine. I can poison whomever I like! You might be next!” Sarah yowled back.

Marilyn bunny-kicked Sarah until the older cat ran off. Marilyn stood up and her ears air-planed towards Dancer.

He shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “Kek . . . Kek . . . Kek . . . That was gnarly, Sheilas.”

Savoy interrupted and asked Marilyn, “Why did you call Sarah a ‘hacking poisoner’?”

Marilyn didn’t answer. She was too focused on the musician.

*********

Opening night for the play ‘Trifle For Trifle’ began without a hitch. The seats were packed and the audience was receptive. It wasn’t until Act II, Scene III where I had my big scene with Marilyn on the balcony. Ms. Davis and I acted our fur off but then disaster struck.

Right when I was in the midst of my speech about the evils of flirting, Marilyn let out a yowl and pitched herself from the balcony into the orchestra pit. From what I could see, she landed squarely on the horn soloist, taking out the sackbutt player!

The play came to a grinding halt. The curtain came down and calls of, ‘is there a vet in the house?’, thundered throughout the outdoor theatre.

Backstage, the Kontinental Kat found me and had me announce that we had to stop the production due to a serious injury to one of the musicians. The crowd dispersed.

*********

The next day, Savoy and I kept our eyes peeled at the theatre. After such an appalling opening night the Kontinental Kat wanted us to be on the spot for whatever developments were to commence.

Harvey Spielcat came into the theatre. He was visibly shaking.

“Oh, my Cat . . . We’ve had to return a ton of money! This cannot be happening!” He grasped his head with his paws and began to cry.

Patches, the wardrobe mistress, stepped forward and rubbed her head on his. “All may not be lost, Harvey.” She told him.

“How can you meow that? It’s a disaster.” He lamented.

“Maybe not. I was looking through some old costumes and found this . . .” Patches handed a play script to the producer.

Mr. Spielcat took it and wandered, slowly, off to his office. He threw it on his desk.

Savoy and I followed him. We could see, through a crack in the door, Mr. Spielcat in the office where a Muskrat sat beside Mr. Spielcat and his desk. Surrounding the Muskrat was a band of nefarious feral Santa Inêz, all of them hacking away at their iPads!

“Uh oh . . . This might be trouble.” Savoy observed.

The End!

*If my work has made you laugh, momentarily allowed you to forget the state of the world, or snort tea onto a nearby surface, feel free to tip or donate.  Supporting writers and comedy is a noble act — like feeding a stray, except with fewer fleas and more encouragement.  Every contribution is greatly appreciated and helps keep the words, wit, and nonsense flowing.  And it may just indirectly fund future silliness.  I thank you in advance.  😻 . . . https://thejoyofcats.wordpress.com/1896-2/

Copyright ©️ 2026 By Judith Wiberg

The Case Of The Missing Play: Part I

Tags

adorable cats, amusing blogs, amusing cats, cat adventures, cat blogger, cat blogs, cat stories, catladyblogger, cats, crazy cats, crazycatladyblogs, cute cat blogs, Cute cats, fabulous cats, fat cats, fun blogs, fun cats, funfictionblogger, funny, funny cat blog, funny cat blogs, funny cats, funny pets, heavenly cats, ingenius cats, love, love those cats, mystery cats, new ventures, pet detective, pet detectives, silly cats, smart cats, writing community

First of all, let me explain to those who are unaware . . . My X account was hacked! 🙀🙀. I knew this day was coming, as the geniuses running the platform formerly known as Twitter, have destroyed it irreparably. (Much like what the U. S. Government has done to its friends and allies). I will not be going back there. If I do get my account back, it will be to deactivate it. There comes a time for everyone to stand up to the nonsense and withdraw your support of the people trying to destroy your livelihood and, much worse in my opinion, squash humour. Needless to say, I will continue to make fun of the idiots. And, quite frankly, all they have done is given me an extremely funny ending for my ‘Tibbs In The Park’ series. It’s coming, don’t worry 🤣😂 . . . You can subscribe to this webpage (it’s safe from hackers, for right now anyway), it does not cost anything to subscribe and you will get an email with my weekly blogs, so you don’t miss an episode. Thank you all. Your support means the world to me. Always has . . . Always will! Love you all, Judy. Now, let’s get to this week’s blog.

The Case Of The Missing Play: Part I

Savoy and I hid under my desk. Being so close, to the lovely BSH, had my head spinning. I knew we were there to keep our identities hidden but I began whispering sweet nothings into her ear. I could not help myself. Savoy gave me ‘the look’ and I ceased.

You’d think the outpouring of unadulterated love would have softened the lovely BSH? But she was all business.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Spielcat?” The Kontinental Kat asked the visitor, over our heads.

“Who’s this lovely lady?” Harvey Spielcat, the producer of our theatre company for the Tibbs In The Park festival, asked.

I thought we’d been rumbled until I remembered that Mrs. Kontinental Kat was in the office.

“This is my wife.” I heard the Boss answer with a cold steely meow. I’d heard rumours that the chubby, black cat had a bit of a jealousy issue regarding his wife but I had never seen it in action.

“My . . . My . . . My . . . What a lucky Tom you are.” Mr. Spielcat seemed to be flirting with the Boss’ wife. 🙀

“Get to the point.” The Kontinental Kat demanded. “Can you excuse us, Babes? Maybe go to the shop downstairs and get us a couple of nip lattes.” The Kontinental Kat shuffled his wife out the door. “Now, what is it you want?”

“This summer is proving difficult to get ‘bums on seats’. I need to take drastic measures to increase profits. The entertainment industry is suffering and we have to do something to get the crowds in. So, I thought I’d do a new Tibbspearean play.” Harvey revealed his plan.

“But Tibbs has gone OTRB. You can’t have a NEW play.” The Kontinental Kat responded with reason.

“Ah . . . But I’ve heard through the industry grapevine that there is a missing play, written by the Bard Tibbs. It’s called ‘The History of Tibbsdenio.’ I’d like to hire you to find it.” Harvey announced.

While the older Toms dickered over price, I gave Savoy an incredulous look. I had never heard of this before. From the looks of Savoy, she seemed unaffected.

As soon as Mr. Spielcat left the office we came out from under the desk.

“What the Floof was that about?” I had to ask.

“That’s your next assignment.” The Kontinental Kat grinned at us.

*********

We stood on the stage, waiting for Stevo to hand out the next scripts. When he finally arrived, he took centre stage to announce, “There is going to be a bit of a surprise for everyone in the next couple of weeks. As of right now, we’ll get on with the usual plays. The next one will be ‘Trifle For Trifle’.” And with that he handed each of us the scripts.

“This play is making me hungry, just, from the title.” I meowed to Sir Rocky who stood beside me.

“Oh, ‘Trifle For Trifle’ is genius. And I, as the leading Tom, will get the feline, by the end of the play. Despite the fact that the whole play is about the ‘outlawing of flirting’.” He rejoiced.

“It’s about what?” I could not be hearing correctly. “I thought all of Tibbs’ plays had a flirting theme?” I concurred. “Are you telling me, in this one, flirting is outlawed? Tibbs must have lost his mind?”

“Yes. Tibbs thought he was King Flirt. But I was always much better than him. Now, I’ll be able to prove it with my excellent portrayal. Wait and see . . .” Sir Rocky went to his dressing room to begin learning his lines.

I had a quick flick through the script to count how many lines I had and since there were only half a dozen, at best, I decided to join Savoy and Marilyn Meowroe, one of the bit players, at the other end of the stage.

Upon reaching the girls, Savoy excused herself before I could meow a word about how lovely she looked.

“Hello, Big Boy!” Ms. Meowroe meowed seductively.

I glanced around. She was meowing to me. I raised my ears at her.

“Why don’t you come up and see me sometime?” She continued her onslaught.

“I . . . Er . . .” When she swivelled her hips and moved towards me with a determined sway, I ran off!

*********

I ran all the way to the tiny lunch room at the very back of the theatre. Standing outside it was the Scottish stage manager, Furgus.

“Mr. Furgus . . . This week’s play, ‘Trifle For Trifle’ features the wonderful dessert. But I’ve never had it before. Do you think I could have a bite before I have to eat it on stage?” I asked. Admittedly, the aromas emanating from the lunch room did have a bearing on my stomach contents, or lack thereof.

“Righty-Oh . . . Cook has just made a wee batch. Help yourself, young Dash.” He invited.

That was all I needed. I rushed into the lunch room and spotted the nip trifle right away. I got stuck in and wolfed it down. It was ambrosia.

*********

Meowing that I had made a beast of myself over the nip trifle, might be understating the facts a bit. Although, my belly was full and protruding, I was so concerned with the queasy feeling that as I returned to the stage area, I barely noticed that Marilyn had moved on from flirting with me, to one of the musicians from the orchestra. They stood in the orchestra pit.

He was a black cat with cattitude. Seemingly caring about nothing and no one.

“Have you met Dancer? He’s the Sackbutt player.” Marilyn introduced us.

I had no idea what kind of instrument he played? He stood with what looked like a trombone, of some sort. To be honest, and this might be too much information, I was less concerned about him and more distressed by my belly. It began to rebel and I started tooting a crescendo, myself.

“I don’t feel so well.” I held my stomach.

Unfortunately, rehearsal was called at that moment. This was my one big scene so I had to be present. Ms. Catte Davis and I stood below the balcony while Marilyn sat up from us. We did a quick run through with the scripts in our paws and read our lines.

Then without warning, I could not hold it in another moment. I began hacking until I threw up . . . right on Ms. Davis! 🙀

“I want, this idiot, fired!” Ms. Davis demanded.

*********

Savoy watched from the wings and decided to use the opportunity to do her job. She approached Furgus and asked, “Where’s Patches? She’s going to have to lend Catte an outfit, since Dash just hacked up all over her.”

“Wee Patches is on the lam. No one has seen hide nor hair of her, in a fortnight.” He spoke colourfully.

“I’ll go to wardrobe and pick out an outfit for Ms. Davis.” Savoy offered amidst a cacophony of curses and demands to get rid of me, from the stage area.

I, helplessly, watched as Savoy made her way downstairs in the theatre. It wasn’t until later that she told me what she had found.

Apparently, Savoy used the distraction of my unfortunate dicky tummy to go in search of the missing play. While everyone else tried to calm the leading lady, Savoy snuck into the wardrobe department.

First she searched all the drawers. Because if one was going to hide a missing script, that’s where it would be, right?

Wrong.

There was no play. She checked behind mirrors, wall hangings and flipped through books. Nothing. It occurred to her, the best place to hide anything was right in plain sight. She looked around and began to shift between the Tibbspearean costumes hanging on the racks.

Then she noticed a tent-like structure. In reality it was a Farthingale covered by a blanket. The circular whale bone hoops for the medieval skirts sat on the floor, off to the side.

Savoy approached with caution. She grasped the lid on the blanket and pulled it off to look inside.

“Oh, my Cat!” 🙀🙀

End of Part I

*Don’t miss next week’s blog to find out, exactly, what Savoy found! Did she find the script? Did she find an outfit for Catte Davis to wear? Did she find poison for nip trifle? You don’t want to miss the next instalment!

*If my work has made you laugh, momentarily allowed you to forget the state of the world, or snort tea onto a nearby surface, feel free to tip or donate.  Supporting writers and comedy is a noble act — like feeding a stray, except with fewer fleas and more encouragement.  Every contribution is greatly appreciated and helps keep the words, wit, and nonsense flowing.  And it may just indirectly fund future silliness.  I thank you in advance.  😻 . . . https://thejoyofcats.wordpress.com/1896-2/

Copyright ©️ 2026 By Judith Wiberg

The Case Of The Cursed Costume: Part II

Tags

adorable cats, amusing blogs, amusing cats, cat adventures, cat blogger, cat blogs, cat books, cat stories, catladyblogger, cats, crazy cats, crazycatladyblogs, cute cat blogs, Cute cats, fabulous cats, fat cats, fun blogs, fun cats, funfictionblogger, funny, funny cat blog, funny cat blogs, funny cats, funny pets, heavenly cats, ingenius cats, love, love those cats, mystery cats, new ventures, pet detective, pet detectives, silly cats, smart cats, writing community

Opening night was an exciting time for me. Starring in the title role of the play King Tibbs, was deffo the highlight of my summer, so far.

I don’t know if you’re familiar with the Tibbspearean play but it’s all about the horrible wretchedness of losing a kitten. Personally, I’ve never had kittens to draw from such an experience but I could imagine what it was like to lose something so dear, especially when my Savoy played the role of the King’s belovéd daughter. I would be crushed to lose her.

I lamented . . . I groaned and thanks to the costume, with which I was commissioned to wear, I wept uncontrollably, right on cue. The penultimate scene, which I thought I had captured to purrfection moved the audience as much as it did, me. They felt my pain.

The scene culminated with Savoy and Ms. Catte Davis manipulating the King to do their bidding. This scene came at a point when I could feel the cursed costume actually taking over my comfort level and it began to forcefully squeeze my nether region. So when I annunciated the words, ‘I be ashamed that thou hast power to shake my tomhood thus . . .’, tears sprang from my eyes unabated.

Needless to meow, I recieved a plethora of curtain calls which only prolonged my agony. Being the true professional I was, I did what us cats do and hid the pain. Luckily, Furgus, our Scottish stage manager, was there to catch me once I exited the stage to thunderous applause.

“Are ye alright?” Furgus asked, laying me on the floor.

“Where’s Ms. Patches? I need to get out of this ill-fated costume, fast!” I yowled. And to be honest, I did not recognize my own meow. It was at least two octaves higher than it had ever been. It was even higher than when I was a kitten!

Furgus went in search of the wardrobe mistress as I writhed around in pain on the floor of the wings.

He seemed to be gone for an extremely lengthy time. Or maybe it just felt that way because I was being strangled by the costume? Whatever the time, when I wiped the tears from my eyes, it was to be faced with the stern features of a black Persian.

“Chief Inspector?” I enquired as I looked up at him.

Then before I could utter another meow, my mouth was covered and blown into by a sandy coloured Tom of the same breed.

I did my best to shove him off me but every time I moved, the costume squeezed tighter at my backside and I nearly passed out.

“Ah . . .” I let out a yowl. The Tom giving me mouth to mouth leapt back.

“WTFLOOF?” He voiced his confusion then claimed, “I saved Dash’s life!” P. C. Pumps began to primp and preen and lick his ears.

“Okay, Pumpkin . . . Don’t get cocky . . . That’s your job.” Chief Inspector Magic deflated his brofur’s proud moment. “Search the building with the others.” Magic sent him off with a load of other cops.

I wiped my mouth and noticed the horrified Savoy standing next to the Chief Inspector.

“Why are you here?” She asked the black Persian.

“We got a call that there’s an excessive amount of nip on the premises. We’re here to arrest the dealer.” The Chief Inspector explained. “We didn’t know, your boy here, was going to need the kiss of life.”

“I was NOT kissed by Pumpkin!” I insisted in my squeaky voice. I had to remove this costume before my tomhood would come into question.

I allowed Savoy to aid me to my dressing room while the police executed their search warrant.

*********

Lying on the couch, flat out, with the costume off me, I could, finally, breathe again.

Savoy returned from her dressing room, wearing her regular clothes, I quickly, covered myself and asked, “Did you see Patches? I need a meow with her. I can’t spend the next week with that costume squeezing my . . . The costume needs major alterations.” I stopped myself from being too vulgar in front of my love.

“Patches has gone missing.” Savoy meowed matter-of-factly.

I was about to question this new development, when the Chief Inspector and P. C. Pumps entered the room.

“Did you find anything?” Savoy asked the Persian in charge.

“Nothing.” Chief Inspector Magic answered.

P. C. Pumps came and stood beside the couch. He eyed me a bit too familiarly, for my liking. “I saved your life earlier . . .” He winked.

I don’t know what he expected of me but I wasn’t prepared to encourage him.

“Can I have some privacy! I need to change . . .”

They all left.

*********

A few more days of chafing and I was ready, willing and eager to go to see the vet! 🙀. My voice was permanently higher now and as I sat at my desk, in the office, I could barely concentrate on the conversation between Savoy and the Boss. Something about Patches’ wardrobe domain . . . to get evidence on her? As light-headed as I was, I simply agreed to whatever Savoy suggested.

Savoy took me by the paw to lead me out of the office.

*********

Since I was at a noticeable disadvantage, I remained ‘look-out’ while Savoy entered the lion’s den (the wardrobe department) to search for the nip stash. We knew it had to be there. Patches would never wander far from her supply. Because of the fact that the Merry Widow had not shown up for work, we did not expect any disturbances. So, you can imagine my surprise, when Stevo, the director, wandered over to wardrobe.

“Can I help you?” I stopped him from entering the room.

“Oh . . . Er . . . I was looking for . . .” Stevo stumbled over his meows.

“Yes?” The question came out a bit harshly but, to be fair, my nether regions stung still.

“Has Patches shown up yet?” Stevo inquired.

“No.” I answered.

“You don’t happen to have any . . . ?” Before he could finish the request, Stevo got spooked by a noise down the hall and he took off.

As I looked after him, I turned just as Ms. Catte Davis reached for the door handle of the wardrobe department.

“She isn’t there.” I told the leading lady.

“Who isn’t?” She pulled her paw away. “I, just, wanted to check out next week’s costumes.” Ms. Davis made a lame excuse.

“I’m pretty sure Patches hasn’t got to them yet.” I looked up and Ms. Davis was gone but had been replaced by the producer, Harvey Spielcat.

“Hmmm . . .” He began. “Do you know who’s taking over for her?” He asked.

“Surely, you, as the producer, would know that, better than I.” I reasoned.

“I don’t deal in . . . Oh, you mean, as the wardrobe mistress?” Harvey seem very nervous.

“What else?” I asked.

Just then, there was a bump which emanated from the room full of costumes. I prepared a plausible excuse for the noise but luckily the sound frightened Mr. Spielcat off.

Savoy stuck her head out of the door. “All clear?”

“All clear.” I confirmed.

*********

We rushed to the office to report Savoy’s findings. The Kontinental Kat had to know about this. I have to admit, I lagged behind and even though we travelled together, by the time I reached the office, they had conversed, formed a plan and were drinking pumpkin tea, on their break.

“Did she tell you?” I flopped on my chair only to leap into the air again, when my sore rear end hit the solid furniture.

“She did. The plan is set.” The Kontinental Kat smirked.

*********

The final performance of King Tibbs ended in great acclaim. I was about to reap the benefits of this torturous week. No amount of pain and discomfort would have stopped me. Not then . . . Not now. The world was my oyster and I was King of the stage!

After the last curtain call, I lumbered to the wings where the cast, crew, my Boss, the police and Sir Rocky stood applauding my achievement. I drank in the adulation and let it wash over me.

Once I received the plaudits from everyone, I neared Sir Rocky. I could see that he regretted giving me the part. We shook paws.

He pulled me in closer and whispered, “Sic transit gloria mundi, Bud.”

I had no idea what that meant, so I replied, “You were a fool to give up this role because of a silly curse. I have the world at my claw tips now.” I boasted.

Chief Inspector Magic and P. C. Pumps joined us. “P. C. Pumps, search him.”

This brought me down to earth with a thud. Was Sir Rocky the one behind Patches nip business? Was this ‘the plan’ that the Kontinental Kat and my Savoy had in store to catch the nip dealer?

Before I knew what was happening, P. C. Pumps began rummaging through my costume. He stuck his paws in the cod-piece and upon removal, I felt an awkward sense of relief as he held up the mother lode of nip!

*********

I entered the office, in total humiliation. Yes, I had been arrested. Yes, I was out on bail. Yes, I had been avoiding the press and P. C. Pumps. NO, I WAS NOT GUILTY!

“Don’t look so glum, young Dash.” The Kontinental Kat patted my shoulder, “You did brilliantly.”

“I did?” I looked to Savoy for confirmation.

“All went according to plan.” Savoy agreed.

“It did?” I was confused.

“Auntie Patches is on the run and whoever is pulling her strings will know that we’re onto them.” Savoy continued to make me feel better.

“This isn’t over. We’ll get this mastermind criminal.” The Kontinental Kat remained determined, “It doesn’t matter how many times you have to go to jail!”

“At least you won’t have to wear that cursed costume any more. It’s at the police station as evidence.” Savoy always saw the bright side of any situation.

The End.

*If my work has made you laugh, momentarily allowed you to forget the state of the world, or snort tea onto a nearby surface, feel free to tip or donate.  Supporting writers and comedy is a noble act — like feeding a stray, except with fewer fleas and more encouragement.  Every contribution is greatly appreciated and helps keep the words, wit, and nonsense flowing.  And it may just indirectly fund future silliness.  I thank you in advance.  😻 . . . https://thejoyofcats.wordpress.com/1896-2

Copyright ©️ 2026 By Judith Wiberg

The Case Of The Cursed Costume

Tags

adorable cats, amusing blogs, amusing cats, cat adventures, cat blogger, cat blogs, cat books, cat stories, catladyblogger, cats, crazy cats, crazycatladyblogs, cute cat blogs, Cute cats, fabulous cats, fat cats, FictionIsBack, fun blogs, fun cats, funfictionblogger, funny, funny cat blog, funny cat blogs, funny cats, funny pets, heavenly cats, ingenius cats, love, love those cats, mystery cats, new ventures, pet detective, pet detectives, silly cats, smart cats, writing community

Finally!

Sitting in the office, with Savoy and the Boss, we were given an actual mystery to solve. Yes, the last few weeks had been filled with the odd perplexing quandary which we always managed to get to the bottom of, but this week the Kontinental Kat had set us a specific assignment.

“Myer has taken an artist’s break this week but before he left, we had a meow and he suspects there is an excessive amount of nip use at the True North Outdoor Theatre. Obviously, he does not want the ‘Tibbs In The Park’ festival to be involved in such behaviour. So, if you and Savoy can infiltrate Patches’ supply chain, he’d be ever so grateful.” The Kontinental Kat laid out our mission.

“You want us to arrest Auntie Patches?” Savoy asked with a meow full of trepidation.

“We know Patches is dealing in nip. It stands to reason that she must pay the price for her nefarious enterprises.” I added. I was not one to ignore corruption. Especially, such a blatant mobster-style business practice as she ran.

“Please, remember to keep the theatre and the festival out of it, if you can.” The chubby, black cat replied. He picked up the festival’s brochure and flicked through it. Shaking his head, he added, “I don’t know how you Tom’s do it?” He turned the brochure around to show some of the photos from past productions.

“These costumes are . . . Meows fail me.” The Boss shook his head.

“I’ll meow that they’re ’form fitting’. You don’t like them?” Savoy took a long look at the other shows with the cator’s wearing the Tibbspearean cod-piece laden costumes. “I think they’re brilliant. And so far, Sir Rocky has done justice to them, as far as I’m concerned.”

“First of all . . .” I felt the need to defend the rest of us in the cast. “ . . . The stars get the best costumes. Everyone else’s are lacking in colour, comfort and acclaim. I know, if I got to play some of the leading roles, I would make a spectacular impression too. Anyone wearing those costumes would stand out.”

Savoy giggled behind her paws as the Kontinental Kat rolled his eyes. I don’t care. My point was made. And this next play might be the one where I would insist on a better part.

*********

When I entered the theatre to retrieve the next script, I ran into Patches who stood next to the producer, Harvey Spielcat. This was my chance. As I joined them I meowed, “Why is it, that the stars are the only ones who receive the costumes that make a splash? Us, supporting players, should either get the chance to wear some of their costumes or be allowed to play the leading roles.” I boldly commented.

“You are, absolutely, right.” Mr. Spielcat answered.

“I mean, it’s not fair that we have to take . . . What did you meow?” Did he agree with me? I must have heard wrong.

“I think you should audition for the role of King Tibbs.” Harvey told me.

“You do?” I was flabbergasted. I, always, thought that the producer was supposed to be a creep who cared only about the money that the stars would bring in. I looked to Patches, the wardrobe mistress, for confirmation that he had agreed with me.

“This play has, definitely, got the most infamous costumes of all the Tibbspearean plays.” Patches grinned inanely.

“But . . .” I glanced from one to the other, still confused by their apparent concession.

“It’s not up to me but I believe you should audition for the lead. My brofur, Stevo, ought to give you that chance.” Harvey Spielcat was proving to be a misunderstood champion of the underdog.

“Wha . . .” I didn’t know how to react to this.

*********

After completing my marvellous audition for the lead, Stevo, the famous director, handed out the roles along with the scripts. “Sir Rocky will make a fantastic King Tibbs.”

To meow that I was disappointed would be too obvious to meow.

“You two go to see Patches. She’ll have your costumes ready for you.” Stevo directed Sir Rocky and I.

*********

On the way to the basement where the wardrobe department was located, Patches and Harvey sat in the room with all the costumes.

Both were lit up and vaped the nip. Patches pawed over a small wad of cash.

Harvey spoke, “Is this all you made over the Canada Day celebrations?”

“I, only had imported nip left. And no one is buying the southern herb, these days. Sorry.” Patches explained.

“Something is going to have to be done about this. The Tibbs In The Park festival is not bringing in the dosh like it used to. Fiction is going the way of the dinosaur.” Harvey voiced angrily.

“We aren’t getting the reach that we used to on social media either. The billionaire owners only promote the posts that pay them the most. Or praise them as Gods. If you refuse to payola them, they limit your influence.” Patches understood the ‘mafia style’, new way (old way) of doing business with these greedy dregs of humanity.

“Well, you better increase your nip side hustle. Thank Cat, our customers are still ‘fault-infused’ felines who are ruled by their need to chillax and not their more logical instincts.” Harvey meowed.

*********

“Have you never heard of the cursed costume?” Sir Rocky asked as we neared the wardrobe department.

“No.” I answered.

“It’s infamous. There is a costume that is reported to choke off anyone who wears it. It only affects the cator’s who play in it. It’s a Royal ermine coat with a large cod-piece and tights. So, the girls don’t have to worry about it but us Tom’s . . .” Sir Rocky sat down and began licking his nether region in sympathy.

“How could a costume choke anybody?” I questioned in all innocence. “It’s ridiculous.”

“All I know is that others who have had to wear the thing have been rendered incapacitated and begin meowing in a squeaky voice. But don’t worry, I won’t insist you wear the thing.” Sir Rocky laughed as he finished grooming and we knocked to enter the room.

What we found were Patches and Harvey Spielcat huddled next to the rack of costumes.

“What’s going on here?” Sir Rocky wanted to know. They appeared to be conducting some nefarious act that they wanted kept quiet.

It was business as usual for the producer, or so I’d heard about him.

“What do you want?” Patches asked abruptly, turning defence to offence.

“We’re here for our costumes.” I answered.

“Oh, right . . .” Patches moved the costumes in front of her and pulled off the rack a Royal ermine coat. “Who’s playing King Tibbs?” She held up the coat and cod-piece.

“Ah!” Sir Rocky yowled.

I answered the question by pointing to Sir Rocky. Except the space beside me was empty. “Where’d he go?” I enquired.

“Chicken.” Patches shook her head.

“There’s chicken available?” I had a good sniff of the air but I could not detect the lovely aroma.

“No. He’s a chicken. A scaredy-cat.” Patches referred to Sir Rocky’s bravery, or lack thereof. She turned to Mr. Spielcat and told him, “You better inform your brofur.”

Harvey Spielcat nodded and left the room, leaving Ms. Patches and myself.

“Now, young Dash . . .” She approached me.

I must admit, I felt like a fly caught in a web with the black and white widow ready to devour me. I was terrified.

*********

That afternoon, I went in search of Savoy. I had to tell her what had transpired. I saw her sitting at the edge of the stage with a couple of feline bit players. The three of them laughed and carried on.

I tried to get her attention and waved her to join me. She ignored me instead. As I approached them she said, “Have you met Sarah Furnheart? And this is Marilyn Meowroe.” She introduced us all.

I nodded at the felines who giggled and blushed. “Excuse us, Ladies . . .” I stepped into the wings with Savoy while the rest of the cast began to congregate on the stage. “I have to tell you what just happened . . .” I blurted out. But when Catte Davis and the director joined the others on stage, Savoy pulled me to the front of the crowd.

“This might be your chance.” She whispered.

“My chance for what?” I whispered back but got no further.

Stevo Spielcat held up his paws and meowed to everyone. “Can I have your attention please?”

We all hushed down.

“We have a dilemma on our paws. It seems that Sir Rocky has taken ill and will not be able to perform the role of King Tibbs . . .” A murmur went through the cast. “But the show must go on. So, there is a huge opportunity for one of you to step up and accept the challenge of a leading role. Any of you Tom’s want to be the star of King Tibbs?”

To my utter shock, not one Tom stepped forward. Surely, they all did not know about the cursed costume? Then I felt a nudge from Savoy. I looked at her and she nodded her head encouragingly.

The awkward silence continued as not one Tom would make eye contact with the director.

Then Harvey Spielcat and Savoy stood centre stage and in tandem meowed, “Dash should have the role.”

Everyone began to applaud their approval of the suggestion and there was a palpable sense of relief. Ms. Sarah and Ms. Marilyn surround me to brush their bodies against mine.

How could I refuse this sort of adulation?

“I’ll do it.” I heard myself meow in agreement.

End of Part I

*🙀 What will become of Dash? Will he be defeated by a costume? Will Savoy get jealous of his newfound fame and adulation? Find out what happens next week.

*If my work has made you laugh, momentarily allowed you to forget the state of the world, or snort tea onto a nearby surface, feel free to tip or donate.  Supporting writers and comedy is a noble act — like feeding a stray, except with fewer fleas and more encouragement.  Every contribution is greatly appreciated and helps keep the words, wit, and nonsense flowing.  And it may just indirectly fund future silliness.  I thank you in advance.  😻 . . . https://thejoyofcats.wordpress.com/1896-2/

Copyright ©️ 2026 By Judith Wiberg

The Case Of The Banana Split: Part II

Tags

adorable cats, amusing blogs, amusing cats, cat adventures, cat blogger, cat blogs, cat stories, catladyblogger, cats, crazy cats, crazycatladyblogs, cute cat blogs, Cute cats, fabulous cats, fat cats, fun blogs, fun cats, funfictionblogger, funny, funny cat blog, funny cat blogs, funny cats, funny pets, heavenly cats, ingenius cats, love, love those cats, mystery cats, new ventures, pet detective, pet detectives, silly cats, smart cats, writing community

At the office, I sat at my desk while the Kontinental Kat read the reviews from last night’s performance.

“The ‘Merry Felines of Cheshire’ is one of my favourite Tibbspearean plays but this opening night performance was the most unexpected display I’ve ever encountered. The stars, Catte Davis and Sir Rocky Hudson, outdid themselves in the starring roles and the new, hot starlet, Savoy Graydon, lived up to the hype that is making the rounds about her. She is a rare talent with a bright future. Her supporting role performance was exquisite. (Watch out, Ms. Davis, your protege may usurp the original). The play concluded in a most unique way and I have to meow that the night belonged to a relative unknown, by the name of Dash Tibbs. (Yes, he’s a distant relation of the playwright). You do not want to forget this cator’s name or face. His comedic portrayal of the buck-toothed rabbit brought the house down. Literally. Whether he meant for the play to turn into more of a hilarious farce than usual, the outcome could not have been more spectacular. ‘The Merry Felines of Cheshire’ is, indeed, a comedy but I honestly do not remember it being half as amusing as to leave both the audience and cast rolling in the aisles.” The Kontinental Kat placed the newspaper on the desk. “You’ve, certainly, knocked the Banana Heist headline off the front page, my dear boy.”

I hung my head in shame. This was the worst day ever. I could not think of anything worse that could happen to me. How was I going to live this down? I had made a mockery of the play and now my Savoy would never go out with a disgrace like me.

As if on cue, Savoy entered the office, laughing uncontrollably. (I should know, I was getting used to that sound). Unfortunately, she wasn’t alone. And who was with her, you might ask? The one feline I did not want her cavorting with . . . Myer Michaels. Both of them, practically, fell over each other with laughter.

“Did you see him scrambling to pick up those tee . . .” Mr. Michaels howled.

I, just, knew they were chortling at my expense! I ran from the office.

*********

I went back to the theatre. The place of my public humiliation. I wanted to talk to Rosie, the props manager, to find out what had happened. He was the cause of my mortification, after all.

I looked high and low . . . in the rafters and under the stage. No one had seen the bunny. Then I saw it . . . A trail of banana bits. I followed.

Now, you might find the next part a tiny bit macabre but remember I was chagrined and because of the stress I had endured, I lost my appetite. My hunger took over, so I ate the bits of the split banana until coming to the end, at the door to the wardrobe department.

I knocked and entered, only to find Patches, the wardrobe mistress, vaping the nip, and Rosie, the props manager, shoving the last bit of banana into his mouth.

“What is going on here?” I demanded.

Patches placed the vape pipe on the table in front of her. “What do you mean? We work here.”

“There are a lot of bananas out there.” I told them. I was happy to have found Rosie, though.

“There are more bananas, in this theatre, than there were at the Glorious and Free Art Gallery, the other night.” Rosie observed. “Although, your teeth seem to be working okay.” He drew attention to my consumption of the yellow fruit.

“How do you know how many bananas were at the art gallery?” I menaced. What kind of nefarious mischief were these two up to? I wanted some answers. My detecting skills kicked in and I began an interrogation, “Rosie, what do you intend to do about my teeth? I don’t want another mishap like last night.” I got right to the crux of the problem.

Rosie leapt into the air, while his tiny body contorted sideways. He honked and Binky-ed about while flicking his feet, to and fro. Was this some sort of fit, he was having? He ran out of the wardrobe department before answering any of my questions. I gave Patches an incredulous look. She merely switched from her vape pipe to a much bigger and more potent nip hookah.

*********

Now, tonight’s performance had all the earmarks of a better offering. You see, as I stood in the wings, waiting for the curtain to go up, Rosie managed to find the new set of prop buck teeth for me to wear. Admittedly, the bunny was a bit hungover from his earlier banana sugar high.

“Are you going to be okay?” I asked in concern.

“Yes.” He answered, a bit spacey.

“These won’t slip out of my mouth again, will they?” I was worried.

“I’ll use the new adhesive. We’ll see if this one works any better than the last one?” Rosie grabbed the glue and lathered the teeth in it.

“It was a bit weird that you went . . . ‘bananas’ . . . when I mentioned the art heist.” I observed. Was he exhibiting a guilty conscience?

“Was it?” Rosie looked around the backstage area.

I followed his gaze and spotted Savoy quite near us. She blew me a kiss as Rosie shoved the buck teeth into my mouth.

The curtain went up and the play began.

*********

Well, this performance went much better. There were no mishaps, no one broke character and the duel between Sir Rocky and myself ended in the most satisfying manner. I could not be more proud of this effort. The newspapers would be full of how well I performed. I might even get a Governor General’s Performing Arts Award’s nomination or two?

Then the unbelievable happened . . .

Backstage, after our numerous curtain calls, (yes . . . even I got one), Savoy sought me out and leaned in meowing, “That was a fine bit of catting. Can I give you a kiss?” And she meant it too, because she motioned for me to remove the prop teeth, in order to plant one on me! Right on the kisser! I’m no fool! This was exactly what I’d been waiting my whole life for.

I pulled on the teeth!

Nothing happened.

I got a better grip and pulled harder!

Nothing happened.

WTFLOOF?!!!!

*********

The Kontinental Kat showed up backstage as I was being led off to the emergency vet dentist. I was told later that they interrogated the bunny until he confessed.

“Yes, I sabotaged the buck teeth. I put a dab or two of Crazy Gorilla glue on the teeth so they would not fly out of his mouth and in fact, the teeth would never leave.” Rosie threw his head back and cackled.

Savoy asked, “Why would you do that?”

“Dash was getting too close to the truth about my banana consumption. I can’t help it. I’m addicted.” Rosie confessed.

“So, you’re the thief who pulled off the Great Banana Split, from the Glorious and Free Art Gallery?” Savoy had figured it out.

“I had to do it.” Rosie let slip. He recovered quickly with, “I love bananas!”

*********

I entered the office with my bandaged ear and now my jaw was bound up, as well. The vet recommended that the teeth be ground down which left me with a very sore face. The bandage was purely for protection against infection.

“You look like you’ve been in a war.” Chief Inspector Magic took in my features.

I sat at the desk and admitted, “This job is becoming a health hazard.”

Savoy left the side of Myer Michaels and placed her arm around my shoulder, “We’ve done good work, this week.” She licked the top of my head.

“You all have . . .” Chief Inspector Magic agreed. “If it hadn’t been for all of you, the police would never have gotten to the bottom of the ‘Banana Split’ theft. We owe the Kontinental Kat Agency a vote of thanks, once again.” Magic sounded bitter.

“Who did it?” I asked.

“Rosie, the props manager.” Savoy answered.

“Rosie? Are you sure? He wouldn’t hurt a fly.” I observed.

“He confessed.” The Kontinental Kat told me.

“Why would he steal the art work?” I inquired.

“And, more importantly, where is it?” Savoy added.

“His banana obsession was becoming increasingly obvious to everyone and he wanted to see his name in the papers again.” The Kontinental Kat surmised as to the rabbit’s motive.

“We haven’t found the stolen goods yet.” Chief Inspector Magic answered Savoy’s question. “He claims that the bananas from the exhibit are gone forever.”

“You mean someone ate them?” Savoy met my eye. I remembered the trail of banana leading to the wardrobe department and blanched.

“He claims that it wasn’t him. But he may have had an accomplice.” Chief Inspector Magic informed us.

“Surely, someone else couldn’t be involved?” I began to panic. I couldn’t go to jail. Not now, not when Savoy was, finally, warming up to me. “I don’t see Rosie as a mastermind Art thief.”

Everyone in the room looked around at each other. I could tell that they were questioning the conclusion they had come to. I, sooo . . . wanted to throw suspicion on Mr. Michaels.

“Who else would have a motive?” Chief Inspector Magic asked.

“Maybe the artist? He got a lot of publicity out of this.” Savoy suggested.

“Or the money people behind the artist?” I was sure Mr. Michaels would be the kind of wealthy cat, to support the arts.

“Why don’t we ask him?” The Kontinental Kat meowed up.

This confused most of us in the room. It, certainly, did as far as I was concerned.

Myer Michaels stepped forward and said, “Okay . . . Okay . . . It’s me!”

“I knew it! Arrest him, Chief Inspector!” This caper was coming to the exact conclusion I had hoped for. Oh glory be . . . Myer Michaels was going to jail.

“He can’t arrest me for being an artist.” Myer Michaels held up his paws. “I had nothing to do with the theft. But I am the artist who has benefited from all this.”

“You’re Foodsy?” Savoy asked, with a meow full of admiration.

“I am.” He confessed. “And now that Rosie has admitted to the theft and the case has been solved, I’ve decided to branch out with my art. The next show will be titled, ‘Tibbspearean Teeth’.” Mr. Michaels flipped over a covering on the desk in front of me.

The End

*If my work has made you laugh, momentarily allowed you to forget the state of the world, or snort tea onto a nearby surface, feel free to tip or donate.  Supporting writers and comedy is a noble act — like feeding a stray, except with fewer fleas and more encouragement.  Every contribution is greatly appreciated and helps keep the words, wit, and nonsense flowing.  And it may just indirectly fund future silliness.  I thank you in advance.  😻 . . . https://thejoyofcats.wordpress.com/1896-2/

Copyright ©️ 2026 By Judith Wiberg

The Case of The Banana Split: Part I

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Another successful play was over and I have to admit I was exhausted. It was extremely hard work, pretending to be a cator while secretly working undercover solving mysteries for the Kontinental Kat Agency. Yet, working with my Savoy, certainly, helped alleviate to stress. In fact, this very weekend, we were to have an official date!

Yes! You see, I managed to score tickets to the latest art show at the Glorious & Free Art Gallery, featuring the avant-garde artist known as Foodsy. He (or she?) was an anonymous person who worked in the medium of food.

The newest show entitled, ‘Bananas’ was rather intriguing. There was a great buzz throughout the city for the risqué exhibit. Some would think the World Cup was ‘the’ event to be at this summer but the art lovers of the world were congregating in TO. And I was lucky enough to escort my Savoy to the Premiere.

It’s funny how one never really notices the mundane aspects of life until something important occurs to remind them. Take bananas, for instance . . . I have to admit, never in my life have I given them much thought. While they aren’t toxic for us cats, I can’t meow that I’ve ever wanted a taste. But here I was coming off the stage after our final curtain call, for the play Desdemona-Cleo, and I ran smack-dab into our prop manager, Rosie (he’s a male rabbit with a long story about his very female name 🙀). The fluffy, grey rabbit munched slowly on an oblong yellow piece of fruit. He spotted me eyeing up the banana in his paw and generously offered me a piece.

I took a nibble. “Hmmmm . . . They’re quite good.”

Rosie twitched his nose at me and his back leg began to thump. He leapt into the air and nearly scared the life out of me.

“Ack . . . !! You haven’t seen a ghost, have you?” I inquired. I still hadn’t recovered from our last caper.

“It’s this banana. Keep it. If I don’t stop eating it, things may get out of paw. It’s like rabbit crack!” He told me while refusing the return of the fruit.

I finished it off and wiped my whiskers while the rest of the cast came offstage and disappeared into their dressing rooms. There were still plenty of the usual hangers-on mingling around, so I decided to spend some time with the props manager.

This was a chance to gain some background knowledge in case the Boss needed it for whatever the assignment was that we were on. Our mission was so secret, I wasn’t told what we were doing here at the theatre. But I needed to research bunnies for my next role, too.

“How did you become the props guy?” I asked Rosie.

“I wasn’t always in this lowly position!” He began. “There was a time that I tread the boards, just, as a you do.” He sounded a tad bitter.

“What happened?” I, genuinely, wanted to know.

“I tried to sleep with the boss, Maisy. She wouldn’t have me.” Rosie took the prop sword I held and along with all the other play props, made his way to his domain. I followed.

“It must be a little satisfying to still be working in the theatre, though?” I tried to put a positive spin on things.

He dumped the props on a table. “Oh yes . . . it’s very gratifying to watch the others get the glory and accolades while I sit back and watch them all sleep their way to the top of the billboard.” Rosie snorted.

“Not all of them get to be stars that way. There are some who have genuine talent and are good at their craft.” I added, thinking of my Belovéd.

“Of course there are. I’m good at props. But it doesn’t beat being a star.” Rosie lamented. “Take next week’s play . . . I’ve got all the props ready. Nip mead, swords, buck teeth . . . They’re all here but what I wouldn’t give . . .” Rosie highlighted another pile as he dreamed of superstardom.

“Ha, ha, ha . . . Who has to wear the buck teeth?” I couldn’t help but chuckle at the poor fool who would have to humiliate themselves. I knew my next role, as Reggie the rabbit, would be a chance for me to shine, at last. I expected good reviews. It was the meaty role of a vegetarian but sometimes props could help a performance. Not buck teeth, though.

“The part of Reggie.” Rosie sneered.

My face fell. “But that’s . . .” I hung my head.

“I’ve had problems with cator’s and these teeth, in the past. So, I’ve got a couple of new adhesives for them to try. I wonder who will be playing the part? They haven’t told me. They never tell me anything. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know what’s really going on here. This play is notorious for backstage romances. The cators, mostly, end up being paired off. But the money guys like to come in and steal the felines.” Rosie told me while ignoring my reaction to his words.

Luckily, Savoy was starting to warm to me or I might have to step in to prevent any unwanted attention from these monied-artists-wanna-be’s.

*********

At the office on Caturday, I met with the Kontinental Kat before the big date with my Savoy. She sat at her desk basking in the praise that the Boss lauded upon her.

“You were wonderful. I wouldn’t be surprised if Catte Davis tried to get you fired. You, by far, outshine her and steal every scene.” The Kontinental Kat gushed.

“I heard she’s more interested in her romantic life, at the moment.” I interjected, meowing about Ms. Davis.

“Is she?” The Kontinental Kat questioned. “Who’s she involved with?”

“Rumour has it . . . the director. In fact, it seems most of the Tibbspearean Company are paired up.” I continued with a longing look at Savoy.

“Are they?” Savoy wondered.

“They’re all at it! But at least you and I aren’t mixed up with any of the cators.” I explained and was about to mention our date when the Boss deflated my balloon.

“Work romances never work. It’s silly to even begin them.” The Kontinental Kat observed. “Actually, I want you to come with me tonight, to meet Myer. He saw you in the play and asked specifically to meet you.” The Kontinental Kat addressed Savoy.

My Belovéd looked at me forlornly (or was that relief I saw in her eye?).

“But we have plans.” I insisted.

“Work comes first.” The Kontinental Kat took Savoy by the paw and they exited the office.

*********

Monday morning and our first rehearsal of the play ‘The Merry Felines of Cheshire’ was late getting started. As we waited for the stars to show up, the rest of the cast discussed the Great Banana Split art heist which had occurred over the weekend. And to think, Savoy and I could have been there! I was pretty sure we could have prevented it. If only the Boss hadn’t scuppered our date.

Rather than kicking myself for the missed opportunity, I got on with the present. I went over my lines as the stars and the director still hadn’t appeared.

Sir Rocky came in first, eating, of all things, bananas. He seemed slightly out of sorts. I approached him and suggested, “Once again we have an intense fight scene. Shall we practice while we wait for the others?”

Sir Rocky smiled weakly. “That’s an excellent idea. I’m, just, in the mood for a fight. Let’s go . . .”

We made our way to the props room to retrieve the decommissioned swords. Rosie handed them to us without uttering a word.

Sir Rocky and I worked with the fight choreographer to make our duel look both real and dangerous. It did not take more than five minutes for the much older and far less athletic, Sir Rocky, to work up a sweat. You’d think this Tom was out of shape or something? 🙀 He, certainly, seemed distracted.

He threw himself into the scene where his character is insanely jealous because the feline he’s in love with, has taken a shine to another.

“You’re playing this scene very realistically.” I complimented him.

“I can draw from my own experience.” He replied enigmatically.

I thought I had solved this little mystery when in walked Ms. Davis, followed closely by Stevo, the director. Both of them were in a most disheveled state. Was Sir Rocky bothered by their relationship? Was he in love with the star? Before I could indulge in this line of questioning, Harvey Spielcat, the producer, came in with another Tom. This other cat was quite good looking. He ate a bunch of bananas while he and Harvey schmoozed with the cast.

“Who’s that?” I asked Sir Rocky as we continued to execute our sword play.

Sir Rocky let up and glanced to where I indicated.

“That’s Myer Michaels, the head of Strong & Free Productions. He’s a tomcat. No feline is safe with him around.” Sir Rocky ground out with venom.

Just then Savoy joined the two wealthy Toms and I saw red. At the same time, Sir Rocky went ballistic. Our sword fight resumed with a fury. We lunged . . . We parried . . . We thrust . . .

The swords whooshed, clanged and clinked until I felt a stinging in my ear. Sir Rocky’s sword had pierced my left ear and stuck me to the set.

“Owwwww . . .” I yowled while attempting to extricate the sword from my ear.

The others came running over to help. Mr. Michaels pulled the sword out of the wall while I collapsed into the ever-loving arms of my Savoy. I sobbed uncontrollably.

*********

I entered the office, that night, after a very long vet visit. My ear was packed in ice and bandaged up like a war hero from WWI.

“What happened to you?” The Kontinental Kat threw down his newspaper and helped me to a chair.

“This play will be the death of me.” I answered dramatically. “What exactly are we trying to accomplish this week? There doesn’t seem to be a mystery to solve, other than the strange things going on with the prop department.” I pointed to my ear as exhibit #1. “No one seems to know how the tip protectors went missing.”

The Kontinental Kat looked to the newspaper he was reading. The headline read, ‘The Banana Has Split’. I did not care about the Great Art Robbery that had taken place over the weekend. Because of Myer Michaels, I had missed the greatest theft since the vet took my Crown Jewels. What did I care about that, when he was blatantly trying to steal my Savoy?

“There may be a connection between the Banana robbery and the theatre.” The Kontinental Kat suggested.

“Oh, please tell me that you suspect Mr. Michaels . . . I don’t like the way he’s eyeing up my Savoy.” I rubbed my ear and flinched.

“Keep your eyes peeled. You aren’t going to miss any performances because of your injury, are you?” The chubby, black cat asked in concern.

“No! If Savoy is, possibly, in trouble, I shall be ready to protect her!”

*********

The opening night performance was going beautifully. There were no hitches so far and the props were in perfect working order. I, purposely, checked and re-checked to make sure the swords had, indeed, been fashioned with a rubber blunt and were rendered harmless. I, only, had one ear left. I did not want another malfunction to occur during the play.

As we neared the crucial fight scene between Sir Rocky and myself, I began to experience a weird foreboding. Something was off. I adjusted the buck teeth I wore for the role, as Sir Rocky circled me. He thrust his sword at my face and managed to, ever so slightly, catch my buck teeth. They flew off into the audience!

I clamped my paw over my mouth. I could not finish the play without my teeth. I ran offstage and looked for Rosie, hoping he could replace the teeth with the other set. But Rosie was nowhere to be found.

The play ended in disaster. I had to retrieve the teeth from the audience. They laughed hysterically at me and the cast could not help but corpse. I felt like Tim Conway to their Harvey Korman for forcing the entire cast to break character in this Tibbspearean play. This was not the reception I had expected.

Had I ruined the play?

End of Part I

*Will Dash redeem himself? Will the Tibbs In The Park Festival recover from being laughed off the stage? Will Dash have more prop issues? Where is Rosie, the props manager? And will Savoy have to save the day again? What a lot to pack into the next blog! Be sure you don’t miss the continuing saga next week!

*If my work has made you laugh, momentarily allowed you to forget the state of the world, or snort tea onto a nearby surface, feel free to tip or donate.  Supporting writers and comedy is a noble act — like feeding a stray, except with fewer fleas and more encouragement.  Every contribution is greatly appreciated and helps keep the words, wit, and nonsense flowing.  And it may just indirectly fund future silliness.  I thank you in advance.  😻 . . . https://thejoyofcats.wordpress.com/1896-2/

Copyright ©️ 2026 By Judith Wiberg