This isn't going to start out well, but what the hell. My name is Muffy. I have worked on it. Muffie has a little of that French whatever, but when you come right down to it, it is Muffy. Sometimes Mufflet. I mean really. In truth, I am a Marlene, or a Hedy. Who thinks up these kudzu names? Humans. I remember quite well the universal condemnation of the name "Muffy" at the International Cat Conference, and what effect did it have? Zero. Humans. What can you do? Can't live with them, can't live without them. Which is where this story comes in.

Sometime around last fall, the dimbulb humans I somehow found myself owning in this lifetime started PLANNING THEIR VACATION. Sweet though they are, they need lots of pictures, if you get my drift. So for weeks the place was littered with brochures, maps, etc. Shiny paper. Not the best to roll around in, but will do in a pinch. And then their neighbours, who are not exactly on my Christmas gift list, because they bought a (spit) dog for their children last Christmas -- Merry Christmas, Muffy, stay indoors for the next 20 years, I don't think so. Dog and I reached an arrangement, involving threats of mutual assured destruction, that has kept the peace in our time. Where was I? Oh yes, the neighbours got into the act, and then some other friends of theirs got into the act, and they had slide shows, and pooled their pretty substantial resources, and decided to go all out and fly into the Great White North, rent a big chalet, and fish and play Scrabble, the usual stupid human tricks. And so they chartered a plane, and it was a big adventure, and they began bumping into each other with boxes and fishing tackles, and to tell you the truth it was not bad for a cat. To really ball up fishing tackle is one of life's great pleasures: not in the league with el Tombo, the hot tom 3 streets over with whom I have spent many an evening counting constellations, but not a bad way to pass an afternoon.

I should say that while no one is smarter than a lady cat in many ways -- don't get me started on male cats -- we do have our limitations. Animals -- and here I speak for most of the kingdom, as I usually do -- are pretty bright by and large, but except for those migrating butterflies and the highflying geese (by the way, try not to spend an evening with geese, don't say I didn't warn you) we don't tend to think too far ahead. We are like movie stars: oh, I thought I recognised you, my husband, right? sort of thing. So it was very late on in this process that it began to dawn on me that we were not exactly talking about a summer of mint juleps for yours truly, but THE CAGE IN THE VET. Oh, they burble on about it, and how spacious it is, but basically we are talking Sing Sing here. No conversation, unbelievable smell, and the company is unfortunate, not to put too fine a point on it. And so I was bracing for the worst. Little did I know that I would soon be praying for a nice vet needle in the rear and 3 nutriously balanced and dreary meals a day.

For lo and behold, it turned out that the kids, bless their greedy narcissistic hearts, couldn't live without their beloved Muffy (hate that name, Marlene, Marlene, Marlene) or Roofie, or whatever for the whole summer. Have I mentioned that the parents were loaded with money, but seriously short on parenting skills? Well, anyway, after scenes of whining and carrying on that would have embarrassed jackals and hyenas, they got their way, as they always did, and all us pets were boxed up, and put into the cargo hold of this pretty snazzy plane, and before you could say Bombed Alaska we were off into the North.

I confess that the cargo hold of a plane is not exactly the best place to get a sense of the wilderness, but after a few hours of droning along, what comes to mind is that it needs a dose of editing. It was also pitch black and noisy in the hold, and sometime along the way, we hit a storm. Again, it is important to note that, strong upholder of animal rights though I am -- mice being an exception because they are so tasty, and nothing that tasty can have rights, I mean would you give chocolate rights against being eaten? I rest my case -- where was I? -- oh, yes, what I was going to say is that animals are not great in storms. Not exactly stalwart. So all kinds of howling and whatnot breaks out, and the plane swoops and turns, and we howl and shriek, and it is all pretty turbulent, and then all of a sudden, the cargo door flaps open. This is interesting, because through the bars on my travelling box I can now see endless forests, and rain pouring down, and lightning and thunder, and it is pretty good. It sort of brings out the jungle cat -- bring on the forest primeval!!! Which is far and away the stupidest thing I have ever thought or said, ranking with the microwave episode, when -- oh never mind -- because at that precise moment the plane swerved low over the forest as if it were going to land, and all the boxes in the cargo hold slid out of the cargo hold and into the forest primeval!!!!

Actually, we were in the air for some time, turning and tumbling over, and then we hit the top of some trees, and turned and tumbled some more, and finally crunched onto the ground. The crash popped open my cage, and apart from some cosmetic bruises, I seemed to be O.K. Littered around me were boxes of stuff, among which were obviously (given the indelicate noises) some other pets, including (alas) Dog.

Apart from everything else it was wet. The rain sluiced down into the forest. Big forest. Big dark forest. Big dark forest a zillion miles away from home. Or vacation spot. Or anywhere, as far as I could tell. I looked up into the pouring rain, and what did I see but the snazzy plane regaining altitude and disappearing into a cloudbank. Hey, wait for us!!! Yeah, right.

I decided to go and check out who else had suddenly become part of the road company of the Last of the Mohicans.