Saturday, April 13, 2013

CAT’S JOURNAL: April 13, 2013

     Today I want to meow about my relationship with Al. The 21st Century (for Humans, Cats have been around much, much longer) has seen quite an interest and development in Relationships. You can’t climb a tree without having a relationship with the tree, the squirrels, Who Knows What. It’s not just humans, cats too are filled to the maw with the “R” word. So, much as I despise cliché, I’ll bow to my peer pressure and fill you in. Al is a co-dependent jerk, if you already know him. You know that song from Oklahoma, “I’m Just A Girl Who Can’t Say No”? That’s the man I have to look after. Always up to his neck in trouble. Of his own making. And, why? Because he doesn’t know how to use the “N” word. If there’s one thing cats are good at . . . You know it!
     Some one comes into the coffeeshop. Grabs a bottle of Vitamin Water. “How much?” “Oh,” says Al, “It’s only a dollar.” Everything with him is a dollar. I’m crying inside, “$ 1.75,” you moron, I’m telling him. But he’s a “people pleaser.” “It’s only a dollar.”
     How much for a cup of coffee? “It’s only a dollar.” Well, let me tell you, it’s a dollar and a half everywhere else. Even here, Mo charged $ 1.25, and she’s almost as bad as he is.
     “How much for this book?” Al . . . The tag says clearly twelve dollars.
     Al says, “Twelve dollars! That’s too much. Let’s say $10.”
     He paid ten dollars for that book. Just glance at the invoice, moron. Let’s get a grip here, fella.
     You see what I mean? You’d think, when it came to my food–now we’re getting to the nitty gritty–I’d be in Cat’s Heaven? Not so. He’s very diligent about my food.  Doesn’t want me to get fat. I ask you! I can look after myself, thank you very much.
     In other homes, Humans have gotten it into their heads that cats only eat what they need. So they fill our bowls with tons of food.  We keep them thinking that way. But, Al? He never heard of that. I get a handful of Kibbles sometime in the morning, sometime at night. Forget regularity.
          You’d think a man 77 years old would have learned something? He prides himself on Communication. Another buzz word with you Humans lately: communication. There’s even a fehrstunkenah Department of Communications at the local Educational Facility, you all call an (ugh) University. There’s a damn University at every train stop in North Carolina.  I swear, every 25 miles! It’s so the locals can watch Basketball. The local yokels are bankrupting themselves to get a Class 1 basketball team going. They don’t even play at their local gym anymore. No, The Coliseum. Gym ain’t good enough. It’s positively Roman I can tell you.
     But back to . . . Communication. Thinks he’s the cat’s meow when it comes to that. Here’s the gen. I communicate that food would be a good idea. We all had our little handful this morning. How about the “one cup a day” rule? Says so on the package. Handful loads about a quarter of a cup, even if you’ve got a large paw.
     So I do what any self-respecting cat would do. I follow him around. I sheep-herd him to the food bowl, to the larder, I dog-heel him, you’ll excuse the expression. I use every trick in the Animal Farm. Does he listen? No. Does he understand? I ask you.
     I’m reluctant. I don’t want to do it. But, okay! I shit in the corner. I piss on the couch. But he just doesn’t get it. He takes me to the Vet to check for Urinary Infection.  I’m hungry! It ain’t no urinary infection, you idjet. It’s just simple, ordinary famished.
     “Look how big that cat is,” well, that’s doesn’t help. He already thinks I’m too big.  Didn’t the Vet tell him two years ago, when I got my passport that my natural weight was ten pounds? That’s what I am. Ten pounds.  Give or take a few pounds.
     Well, excuse me while I drink some water. I might as well start pissing in the cat’s pan again. He can’t communicate. You call that Communication? I don’t. He thinks he’s a good Listener. Let me tell you something. It’s not how much  you listen, it’s how well you listen. Might as well purr for a . . . a dog!
     I’m getting hoarse, it’s so irritating. You can cry till the cows come home. No one listens. No one cares. Cats know this in their bones. They can make nice all they want, but we remain properly skeptical.

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