Based on true events. TOTALLY.
It had been exactly three thousand years and forty two days since the last speck of dust of the Great War had settled. It was the greatest undocumented war ever fought in the history of the planet. It was a war which took a firm hold on the rudder of events and changed the course of history forever. It was a war fought with glowering faces and clenched buttholes. It was a war where a myriad paws grappled with each other and the increasingly strident yaps and growls deafened the Gods. It was a war fought between the callous cats and the determined dogs.
The war had broken out after the dogs’ demands and the cats’ outright refusal of the proposed demarcation of their respective territories. The cats had encroached, littered and painted their turfs with technicolour yawns, which the dogs refused to appreciate.
The dogs had organised themselves in a cult under the leadership of Apollo the Hound and called themselves “Sons of Bitches” to reclaim their territory. After the failed negotiations, thanks to Apollo the Hound’s knack of deciphering the sophistries of the cats, they seared through and maimed the furry and non-furry felines in their own territory.
The war was in its fifty seventh day and on the highest possible level of intense. The cats were deceptive, but highly unorganised. The dogs fought vehemently with their paws and tails up and inched towards a well-deserved victory.
Then the ship arrived.
The ship was called The Colossal CAT-a-clysmic CAT-a-strophe, which roughly translated to MEOW in Cat, with an extra emphasis on the last syllable. Its giant demeanour resembled to a generic feline and hovered twelve miles up in thin air. It was a tad blacker than the blackest shade of black and had two eyes made of ruby popping out in front. Its whiskers fluttered and the eyes emanated a strange highly focussed beam of intense red light, when needed. The sentient ship, disgusted by the scattered state of the cats in the battlefield, let out a loud harrumph and the cats kneeled and sang their song in a lilting chorus.
The ruby eyes then lit up and the beam of intense red light pierced through the atmosphere and hit the battleground. The beam created a very sharp and intense red dot on the pale yellow soil. It was not just a normal intense red dot on the pale yellow soil and the cats knew it. They cheered with a loud commotion as the spot hit the ground. According to The Cosmic CAT-a-logue of CAT-Stuff, tapping the intense red dot emanating from the giant ruby eyes furiously twelve times in a succession would double the physical prowess and quadruple the deceptive abilities of the cats. There was a frenzy of cats frantically chasing and tapping the intense red dot to achieve superior physical and mental attributes, as it was their only the way to defeat the dogs and please The Cosmic CAT-a-clysmic CAT-a-strophe. And the intense red dot worked its magic and doubled their physical strength and tripled their deceptive abilities. Some of the power went into giving some of the cats the cuteness, which could melt Achilles’ heart.
The cats then struck back and they struck back hard.
Apollo the Hound and his army of dogs were no match to the sudden surge of the enthused cats. Their faces were slapped, tails were bitten, noses were scratched and the dogs withered and whimpered. Apollo the Hound couldn’t bear the weight of the loss and dug a hole in the pale yellow soil with his rear limbs and buried his face. The cult called Sons of Bitches ceased to exist from that particular moment and the cats smirked and purred in victory.
The sun had risen more than a hundred thousand times since then and set the same number of times, only to witness the supremacy of the feline kingdom. The cats still ruled and littered and painted turfs. The dogs were in submission.
Not all of them.
Today was the sixteenth day of July in the year nineteen thirty six and Mrs. Alvarez was taking her usual Thursday afternoon nap in her house, somewhere in the southern part of Spain. She was taking care of three dogs and a cat of Reuben, an aspiring writer, who had temporarily moved to France, apparently to cure his writer’s block.
The dogs were called Franco, Sanjurjo and Ernesto. The cat’s name was Hector.
“What does Francisco Franco look like?”, yelled Ernesto in his sharp grating voice in the lounge.
The dogs were uniting. Sons of Bitches were rising.
To be continued (probably)..
It had been exactly three thousand years and forty two days since the last speck of dust of the Great War had settled. It was the greatest undocumented war ever fought in the history of the planet. It was a war which took a firm hold on the rudder of events and changed the course of history forever. It was a war fought with glowering faces and clenched buttholes. It was a war where a myriad paws grappled with each other and the increasingly strident yaps and growls deafened the Gods. It was a war fought between the callous cats and the determined dogs.
The war had broken out after the dogs’ demands and the cats’ outright refusal of the proposed demarcation of their respective territories. The cats had encroached, littered and painted their turfs with technicolour yawns, which the dogs refused to appreciate.
The dogs had organised themselves in a cult under the leadership of Apollo the Hound and called themselves “Sons of Bitches” to reclaim their territory. After the failed negotiations, thanks to Apollo the Hound’s knack of deciphering the sophistries of the cats, they seared through and maimed the furry and non-furry felines in their own territory.
The war was in its fifty seventh day and on the highest possible level of intense. The cats were deceptive, but highly unorganised. The dogs fought vehemently with their paws and tails up and inched towards a well-deserved victory.
Then the ship arrived.
The ship was called The Colossal CAT-a-clysmic CAT-a-strophe, which roughly translated to MEOW in Cat, with an extra emphasis on the last syllable. Its giant demeanour resembled to a generic feline and hovered twelve miles up in thin air. It was a tad blacker than the blackest shade of black and had two eyes made of ruby popping out in front. Its whiskers fluttered and the eyes emanated a strange highly focussed beam of intense red light, when needed. The sentient ship, disgusted by the scattered state of the cats in the battlefield, let out a loud harrumph and the cats kneeled and sang their song in a lilting chorus.
The ruby eyes then lit up and the beam of intense red light pierced through the atmosphere and hit the battleground. The beam created a very sharp and intense red dot on the pale yellow soil. It was not just a normal intense red dot on the pale yellow soil and the cats knew it. They cheered with a loud commotion as the spot hit the ground. According to The Cosmic CAT-a-logue of CAT-Stuff, tapping the intense red dot emanating from the giant ruby eyes furiously twelve times in a succession would double the physical prowess and quadruple the deceptive abilities of the cats. There was a frenzy of cats frantically chasing and tapping the intense red dot to achieve superior physical and mental attributes, as it was their only the way to defeat the dogs and please The Cosmic CAT-a-clysmic CAT-a-strophe. And the intense red dot worked its magic and doubled their physical strength and tripled their deceptive abilities. Some of the power went into giving some of the cats the cuteness, which could melt Achilles’ heart.
The cats then struck back and they struck back hard.
Apollo the Hound and his army of dogs were no match to the sudden surge of the enthused cats. Their faces were slapped, tails were bitten, noses were scratched and the dogs withered and whimpered. Apollo the Hound couldn’t bear the weight of the loss and dug a hole in the pale yellow soil with his rear limbs and buried his face. The cult called Sons of Bitches ceased to exist from that particular moment and the cats smirked and purred in victory.
The sun had risen more than a hundred thousand times since then and set the same number of times, only to witness the supremacy of the feline kingdom. The cats still ruled and littered and painted turfs. The dogs were in submission.
Not all of them.
Today was the sixteenth day of July in the year nineteen thirty six and Mrs. Alvarez was taking her usual Thursday afternoon nap in her house, somewhere in the southern part of Spain. She was taking care of three dogs and a cat of Reuben, an aspiring writer, who had temporarily moved to France, apparently to cure his writer’s block.
The dogs were called Franco, Sanjurjo and Ernesto. The cat’s name was Hector.
“What does Francisco Franco look like?”, yelled Ernesto in his sharp grating voice in the lounge.
The dogs were uniting. Sons of Bitches were rising.
To be continued (probably)..