Mort Tashman's Wonderful World of White

We don't get much snow here in the south, so it was fun to see Morty's reaction when he jumped up onto the windowsill for the day's first assessment of his kingdom. He executed a perfect surprised double take at the bright whiteness which had blown in at dawn, blanketing the outdoors.

"Good Gleason there," I remarked.

Nothing. He didn't get the reference. I offered to show him "The Honey-Mousers" with those cartoon mice, but, nope, he wanted to venture into the wilderness.

In the seven years I've been Morty's Personal Assistant, he's only indicated a desire to touch snow on a couple of occasions. I asked if a paparazzo could tag along. He provided nary a sound bite, zipping by me into the icy unknown.

"Hmmph. Celebrities," I dared to think.

I braved forward, too, praying the camera wouldn't freeze, which reminded me I had forgotten the trail mix, Tender Vittles with freeze-dried crickets.

The cold, wintry ordeal, as the relentless Morty trudged through high grass and forest without the aid of snow chains on his paws, finally, mercifully concluded around the four-minute mark.

I staggered behind, puffing, slipping, and curious-ing.

See "The Honey-Mousers" in

Morty had stopped in his tracks.

Cat. He smelled the strong odor of cat.

"Um, Morty," I said, "that's our house. That's the bedroom. Your spot is exactly on the other side of the wall."

Obviously, I was white noise to him. A clump of snow fell off the roof onto my head.

Morty, Cat of Adventure, went inside, hopped on his comforter and began a grueling eight-hour nap.

It was all I could do to keep pace with him.
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