FINNEGAN - OUR NEW MOUSIE HUNTER

Finnegan - Newest Member of the Barnyard          

          Let me introduce to you, our very own felicitous, felonious, flexible, fleet-footed, feline, Finnegan, the newest member of Golden Unicorn Farm.  He's stable, able - puts mousie on the table - doesn't share mind you.  He meows and purrs, seldom, at least hardly ever slurs, except of course, only when he slurps.  He's a cat among cats; a real cool cat - not your average tom cat - not like the three that live down the road next to the dumpster; one is brown and one is white and one has a pancake stuck to its bum - no, Finnegan's got class spelled with a capital C - he prances, dances and in time will be romancin' - I'm sure a sleek, proper pussy with a slender, splendorous physique will in his ear one day, softly whisper, softly speak of promises of delight and meet him in the barn one cold night in the moody moonlight with only the wind as their witness.
          Finnegan's bloodline can be traced back to the land of green, Eire, Erin or Ireland - blarney, if he aint an Irisher through and through; why even his melodious meow, his personable purr has a charming, agreeable lilt.  His great, great, maybe 477 great grandfathers ago, Nine-Lives-Willy, a philandering feline with an incredible gift of gab, while pursuing a long-tailed, Porky Pig of a wharf rat that ran aboard an old three masted sailing schooner, its destination, Halifax, Nova Scotia circled on the chart, didn't realize where he was until a one-eyed crewman slammed the cargo hatch shut with a bang.  Aye, Nine-Lives-Willy not only survived the lengthy sea voyage, the North Atlantic heaving its watery guts across the decks for days on end, he was fat - roly-poly as Humpty-Dumpty from dining on the wharf rat and all the other rub-a-dub rodents that had snuck aboard the schooner.
          No doubt about it, Finnegan the feline is a fine specimen of a cat; expect he will do right fine here on our little farm - lots of wee rapscallion rodents scurrying about - many dainty little morsels with skinny, stiff long tails he can pick his teeth with when he's finished dining.  He's a corker, toe-to-the-line, look 'em in the eye and then pounce with a fury, furry paws with long sharp nails and a mouth full of needle-tipped teeth - a mousie killing machine if I ever did seen one.
          Finnegan is precocious and playful and very affectionate - for someone who doesn't really care for cats that much - I find it's impossible to not notice and respond in a favourable way to this little cat as he rubs himself against my legs and snuggles into my arms, purring contentedly away.  Although Jessica and Rachel would just love to give Finnegan the run of the house - it's not going to happen.  We don't need an overly pampered fat feline, a lazy Garfield, the cartoon cat, lying about on a velvet cushion by the warm wood stove hearth, forever stuffing his face with a bowl of goodies, an endless supply of fresh tuna and cold milk.  No - the mousies have been steadily moving into the barn, studio and house as if they are the favourite vacation spots for rodents during the winter - Finnegan is here to discourage their annual autumn migration.  I haven't noticed a decline in the mousie population but my wife Sarah has seen him toying with one of the unfortunate rodents before devouring it.
          Finnegan aint no prissy pussy cat, no puss in boots, no clothing of any kind - he prefers to be au naturel - what you see is what you get kind of feline.  I just happened to glance out my studio window and what do I see - it's that Finnegan cat lying down on the job - can you believe it - he's out sunning himself on log in the warm sunshine - better go grab my short leather whip, the one a retired tiger trainer gave to me right after the tiger he was training bit it off along with his arm - cheers - eh!