Expat Life: The Terrible Vengeance of Merlot

But one day the solitude will weary you; one day your pride will yield, and your courage quail. You will one day cry: "I am alone!" 

One day you will no longer see your heights, and see too closely your depths; even your sublimity will frighten you like a phantom. You will one day cry: "All is false!" 

There are feelings which seek to kill the solitary one; if they do not succeed, then they themselves must die! But are you capable of this -- to be a murderer? -

                                                              Friedrich Nietzsche:  Thus Spoke Zarathustra

Leave me alone in a cage for three hours while you go out to dinner, will you?

You are weak and foolish, oh humans.  You have forgotten to secure all the doors of my crate.

I shall extract a terrible revenge upon you and your house.

I shall begin by knocking over your azalea - you know, the pink one that's blooming in January and that I have had my eye on?  The one that I've repeatedly tried to sample, only to be thwarted time after time? Yeah, that one.  I'll knock it over, and then I'll eat some of the flowers - you were right, though; they're not very tasty - I'll show my displeasure by scattering all the dirt from the pot in an enormous radius in the living room, leaving dirty footprints everywhere - including the couch.

I'll knock the remotes and cushions onto the floor while I'm at it, just for spite.

I'll make my presence known in your bedroom, romping across your bed with those selfsame soiled paws and I shall smite your glasses (both eye and water) off your nightstand unto the floor.  Knitting shall be unrolled; toilet paper shall be shredded.  Socks shall be strewn hither and yon.

I shall leap into the bathtub and skitter in a mad pattern across its gleaming white surface.  The few drops of water that are in the tub will combine with the azalea soil of my anger to create a vortex of pawprints and fury that can convey only a small portion of my wrath.

Ah, you love your earbuds, do you? So do I.  They're delicious.  One of them, I shall smite upon on the floor.  The other one, I'll ingest.  You will search for it in vain, wringing your hands as your hope of finding it fades into the shadow of my scorn.

But wait! My anger still burns brightly.  I shall poop on the floor in your study.  And eat it.  Then I'll poop on the floor again.  Then I'll eat it.  Again.  But I will leave traces so you can see and tremble at the full extent of my displeasure.

Rubbish and recycling? Please.  They will be the first place I go, watching with satisfaction as their flimsy plastic yields to my skittering paws.  I will chew everything within my reach into the tiniest possible pieces and distribute them evenly throughout the kitchen and dining room.

I shall dismember my squeaky sheep and leave her carcass, broken and torn, as a grisly harbinger of what is to come.

No corner shall escape my terrible wrath.

I will destroy all that you love.

When you return, late at night,somewhat fuddled by an evening of wine and conversation, ready for the comfort of your bed, I shall be waiting, in the dark, Sphinxlike. Standing in the middle of the dining room table, surrounded by chaos and destruction I have wrought upon you.

And you shall be without consolation.

Be afraid.

Be very afraid.