The Queanbeyan peace accord

So, I'm back in Queanbeyan territory, where the men have mild mental retardation and the women are all related.  Literally, just one big, happy family.  I first moved to struggle town back in 2005 - a move inspired by the wildly successful advertising campaign  - "city benefits, country living". In reality, it's more like "welfare benefits, deadshits live here".  I moved out of Queanbeyan two years ago when the realtor sold the house I was renting without asking me if I wanted to buy.

LJ Hooker Queanbeyan - you're the best.  No, you are; you're the best at screwing your tenants over.  Nobody does it better.  And now I am back here for two weeks housesitting, in the house I used to live in.  Yes, that's unusual, but the house is next door to my sister's, so it's not that weird.  And the new owner is lovely, so it's all good.

Back in the complex, and it doesn't feel like I ever lived here previously; it feels like a completely different space, which is a little odd really.  Although, I do keep doing things subconsiously that I used to do - like reaching for a towel on a hook that doesn't exist anymore.  The furniture is different, and nothing feels the same, which is good I suppose, because I was sad to move on.

I am here looking after a neurotic cat called Cat, more formally known as Neurosis, but thankfully she answers to Cat, as it would be awkward yelling "Neurosis!" into the night.  She is a rescue cat; ie. suffering from a range of psychological disorders, and she is rather disgusted that I am in her space.  Cat and I agreed on certain things at first - like I was to leave the room when she sauntered through, and I was not to make eye contact with her.  EVER.  However, I have been here for five days and she is coming around to me, bless her little white sock paws.  And she really is so thoughtful.  I checked my diary the other day and she had added a new entry - "clean my litter box".  So very thoughtful.

There is a stray cat called Dusty that comes around for food.  He is a gorgeous little cat, and I'm told he has a home, but I believe he has the worst owners in the world, because Dusty sleeps outside this house, eats outside this house, and probably shits outside this house.  I have now de-wormed him, so maybe the poor little bugger won't be so hungry all the time.  

This is Daisy.
Her identity is protected.

And my sister has two cats - Daisy and Meg - so relations seem to be a little frosty here in Catland.  To be honest, things are less frosty in the Middle East when it comes to keeping the peace.  Cats really need to learn to get over things and stop being so psychotic and obsessive.  Muslim extremists should also take heed: get over your clan shit and stop ruining the world for everyone else.  And stop hijacking our media to garner support for your insane ideologies.  Our media is reserved for Paris Hilton and the Australian Cricket Team.   

This afternoon, when three of the cats were staring each other down, I thought it was such a beautiful day for the beginnings of a new peace road map for the complex.  So I started to go all Ban Ki-moon on them, but relations soured when Daisy decided to scrap her cease-fire and started hissing at everyone else.  You only need one Gaddafi to ruin everything.  So then I went all-Obama on them, and simply denounced the violence and walked back into my nice, cushy, ivory tower oval office where I didn't need to deal with all the bad things in the world.