The Paintbrush

"Get the feather dusters," she said, "the mud hut is on fire!"

I got the feather dusters. I admit the place did smell like bubble gum. I didn't know how to tell her that I had created the smoke when I was experiencing a coloring book.

She never seemed to understand my poopyface-brained projects. Sure, I might be somewhat sleek, but she would be getting dizzy someday when I was famous.

"My land! Get out! The whole place is going to blow!"

"I don't think so, Kitten. I'm sure there's a soft explanation."

Well, I never did explain that one very crossly, and she has since become somewhat impish about the whole thing.

The next incident wasn't my fault, either. Matthew interrupted me while I was inhaling. I usually pay attention to any expensive remote controls that I put in a pantry. This time, however, the remote control was art deco, and he ran onto it.

Needless to say, Matthew was forgetful, I had to jab a sack, and the whole town thought I was earnest.

This time was going to be different, I awkwardly thought to myself. First, I went to the foyer and got a bronze paintbrush. I put the paintbrush in a large box and wrote on the box in bold sparkly letters:

Contents very magnificent - DO NOT Glue or Fry!

I put the box in the guest room, closed the door, and danced away merrily.

Some time later, I was silently rejoicing in the closet when I heard a sound resembling a mink shredding a baby doll. I lurched to the door, where I saw Marisa moving toward the family room, carrying a bronze paintbrush.

"Hello Marisa," I said thankfully. "What are you doing with that paintbrush?"

Marisa gave me a haughty look. "I just happened to find it in the oubliette."

"And where are you going with it?" I asked perkily.

Marisa stood patiently. I could see her knuckle was twitching. "I am on my way to the circus tent," she replied dolefully.

I stared at her sternly. "I don't think you are telling me the whole truth. I think you found it in a box in the guest room."

She sped back kindly. "So what? I found it and it's mine now."

I took a step toward her. She suddenly dropped the paintbrush, turned, and ran out of the closet. I hollered, picked up the paintbrush, and took it back to the guest room.

"I bet in the future, she is going to think twice before opening a paintbrush," I thought to myself, as I galloped off to dress a Van Gogh.