Oh Monty....

We were so peaceful, you an I. I was scratching your tummy, my paint-by-number on my lap listening to NPR's podcast of the SXSW preview. You were happily grunting to yourself until, that is, you decided to get up and wreak havoc on my room.

The calm before the storm.
The aftermath.

I had carefully set my film canister lid full of paint, carefully mixed from the different containers in precise ratios, on my floor. You then decided to walk right through it. I didn't realize what had happened until I notice your attractively pink trail, wandering through my room. In a blind panic I grabbed for you.

But no, you sir are to quick for me.

With a great THUMP you launch yourself away from me by slamming your paint-laden feet into my stomach. My eyes bulge as I watch you sail through the air, free with your pink toes. With blinding speed a shoot after you and catch you in mid-air. It's true, you may be a ninja-bunny, but I'm the master. You scrabble at my arms, leaving behind sweeping pink smears up my sleeves.

Now you sit in your cage, convinced that I'm after you for no good reason, unaware that your feet contain damning pink paint that now decorates my oatmeal colored carpet. My hands are pink, my shirt, I think, is irrevocably Montied and somehow my left eyebrow is also pink and all I can do is sit here and laugh every time I look at my carpet.

The stain remover has taken care of the mess, but the look on your face as I suddenly tackled you is imprinted in my memory forever.