Um, the quarterly Russ. And the story of our lost mousie.

Hey, Russter here.

Yeah, so my life is pretty complicated and full and busy and such. The truth of the matter is that I just don't have time for The DAILY Russ. I have dust bunnies to chase, naps to take, holes to dig in the backyard, little brother cats to boss around, and treats to beg for. And I have to admit that even though I'm really awesome, I need Mom's help to pull this off. I don't know how to work the 'puter. I need her to do the transcribing and technical bits for me (plus, I'm above that sort of menial work).

Problem is, Dad got Mom a new computer, and she's a doofus and still hasn't figured out how to get her pictures over to the new computer. So uploading brilliant photos of Russky is difficult. But I've talked with her, and she's trying to get her kittens in a row.

(If I complain enough, she just might start narrating this blog for herself and cut me out completely. She keeps saying things like "diva" and "sassy pants" and "quit yer fussin'" lately, so I think I'm treading on thin ice.)

In the meantime, I make no promises regarding the dailiness of this website. You'll get Russ when you get him, and you quit yer fussin'!

On to the story of the lost mousie... My girlfriend, Jess, brought us cats a yummy little mousie from the pet store. Catnip inside, furry little body, the works. Charlie and I wrassled with it a lot and flung it around and generally got into a heap of trouble with it.

Then one night, Mom was in the living room knitting (that's all she ever does these days), and she turned toward the kitchen to see me do a really awesome mousie flip. That thing nearly hit the ceiling, and I got lots of "Wowsers, Russ!" and "What an amazing boy!" I like that kind of talk. So I did some high stepping and a lot of booty shaking to show that I was fully aware of my ever-increasing rad factor.

Mom left for a while after that. And when she came home, Charlie and I kept crying cuz we couldn't find our new mousie. She's a little thick but finally caught on that all our ruckus was about our mouse.

She looked and looked... Where was Mr. Mousie?

Wedged on a bottle of two-buck Chuck on Dad's fancy wine racks. My totally killer mousie fling had landed the little guy right there. I told you I'm awesome. Believe me now?

Later, dudes.
Russaroni