I don’t know what research they’ve done on their own when I’m not around, but I’m fairly certain my cats have no idea what my name is. How could they? We’ve never been formally introduced and we’ve never sat down to have a decent conversation. We’re just roommates. Roommates who sleep together.
I’m pretty sure they just think of me as “that big beige cat” or “that guy” or “the big cat” or something simple. They’re not too bright. A few minutes ago one of them was licking the carpet where he puked two days ago. Yes, I cleaned it. With chemicals, too. But he was still licking at it as though it were fish jerky impregnated carpet. Cats are stupid.
I like to find weird shit in weird stores. For me, life is a collection of stories and one long scavenger hunt. One of the best places for a scavenger hunt is in one of those stores where everything costs a buck. Or where everything costs just under a buck, or where MOST things costs a buck but some things are cheaper than a buck, or you get two or three things for a buck, or even six things for a buck, or sometimes they’re even a little more expensive than a buck, but not TOO much more expensive than a buck because everything is trying to cost right around a buck. The 99 Cent Store, Dollar Tree, and the ridiculously surreal ghetto-fab Q Bargain are good examples. I like that there are aisles and aisles of junk food. Cookies, candies, sweets, crackers, sugars, pastas, breads. Although there are a lot of great bargains, these stores can be diabetic temptresses. An important sociological study could be undertaken on that pithy observation, right?
My favorite part of the dollar store experience is the scavenger hunt. There are so many Read more
Like clockwork, this stupid cat wakes up an hour before breakfast to yell at me that he’s hungry. He stomps my head and body with his razor claws. I ignore him for an hour, kicking him off the bed repeatedly until I can take it no more and I eventually feed him.
Like clockwork again, the cat wakes up an hour before dinner to yell at me that he’s hungry. I yell back at him for an hour, chasing him through the apartment until I can take it no more and I eventually feed him.
From the perspective of my two cats, I am not unlike Kim Jong Il.
They understand that I am their incontestable president and national father. I am their tyrant, protector, rule-maker and chief source of anxiety, fear and comfort. I am their militaristic expert, number one celebrity, popular legend and mythological hero. I am imperious, larger than life and I exemplify perfection as the sole provider of their shelter, food and emotional contentment. They worship the ground upon which their supreme leader walks and they clamor to snooze where I have once been seated. They are blessed to receive any scraps that might fall by my feet. They are dependent upon me for their health and happiness, sing my praises and follow me blindly without dispute. For should they ever dare question me they surely imagine a grave penalty, a punishment that would reverberate through the empty streets of their idyllic facade of a country.
As they have never been permitted to leave their homeland, and as they haven’t spent too much time reading western imperialist newspapers, I allow these poor blessed creatures to continue to believe that I am all of these things, for it satisfies and amuses my megalomania as a pet owner.
However I’m sure that nobody dares to walk on Kim Jong Il’s head at night, claw his face or track cat litter into his bedsheets…