As the World Spins: The Boyle Family Saga, Episode 2: Pebbles Boyle Finally Speaks Out

Written by Aubergine Underwood

Monday, 14 June 2010


The story you are trying to access may cause offense, may be in poor taste, or may contain subject matter of a graphic nature. This story was written as a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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Hello Good Humans!

My name is Pebbles Boyle. I am an eleven year old Turkish Van cat formerly owned by singing sensation Susan Boyle who ruthlessly abandoned me to pursue the bitch goddess, Fame. I would like to tell you the sad "tail" as to how I wound up in rehab at a clinic here in London called The Priory.

One fine sunny day early last summer I was out for a stroll on the streets of Blackburn. I was looking for a wee bit of romance and considering going down to the River Almond and tormenting the colony of Wild Haggis who live along its banks.

Suddenly this bodyguard type person grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and plopped me into a pet carrier. Next thing I knew I was on a plane to London. It was my first flight and I'm rather afraid I am a white-claw flyer. I yowled my protests until several of my fellow passengers suggested I be tranquilized or better still, euthanized.

Once in London, I was taken to the home of this eccentric elderly spinster, Miss Grimly Grimm, who already owned thirteen cats. "Whut the fuck," I thought. "Don't these idiots know that introducing another cat into an already established group is likely to result in World War III?" I eyed the two resident males, Cobol and Keir, with mounting terror. Ultimately, I spent much of my time there on the mantle trying to fend off those two bruisers.

My biggest complaint about my new home was the food. Granted I had been spoiled and indulged by my previous owner, but this was ridiculous. I had been used to eating minced pilchard served on a crystal plate and drinking a saucer of cream and now I was expected to eat tinned cat food and drink water. "Water? Have you ever tasted the water in London? No wonder the residents there only drink malt."

Increasingly unhappy with my situation, I decided to dig into my repetoire of obnoxious cat behaviour. Any activity my new owner was doing, I interferred. I swatted newspaper pages as she was reading, rolled on top of sewing projects, chewed up yarn from the mittens she was knitting in this weird color called aubergine. I spit up fur balls all over the place, I woke her up in the middle of the night demanding to be fed. I played too rough and bit her. I scratched the furniture, upset plants, climbed the curtains. Used to cats, she only smiled indulgently at my tactics.

"Pebbles," I said to myself, "nothing is working here. It is time to bring out the big gun." And so I decided not to pee in my litter box. I left spots on the carpet, the floor, the furniture, and finally the bed. Took her three loads of laundry to clean up that mess.

One day I saw my opportunity to escape when a repairman accidentally left the front door open. "Blackburn or bust," I said to myself as I tore through the open doorway. Actually, I had no idea how to get to Blackburn, but perhaps I could find someone to help me.

At first I ran into some nasty toms who beat me up rather badly. Then I met up with a group of hard partying ladies, ironically named the Pebblettes, and my trip down the road to perdition began. I stayed out until all hours, I drank to excess, I did every drug in the book. My only advice is do not do cocaine. It will get you in the end.

I'm told a kind person found me unconcious in some alleyway and brought me here to The Priory. I am starting to feel better now, but am extremely upset by the rumor that a member of The Red Cult has just purchased The Priory.

Somebody please get me out of here and back to Blackburn.


Love and Purrs, Pebbles

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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