I am a cat. I can't help it. I was born this way. I will always be a cat. It's not such a bad fate. I could have been a dog, for example. Bow wow.

*

Sun is shining, the weather is sweet. Makes you want to move your dancin' feet. The radio was on and I was listening to music. I like music, but I don't care how good the music is, you're just never going to catch me dancing. Have you ever seen a cat dancing? Sure, some of you may be able to remember a story about a plucky kitten who jumped about like a little puppy and would swear it was dancing, but you are mistaken. It's just not true. I can speak for most cats, being a cat myself is enough authority, and I assure you that none of us would be caught dancing. If it looked like we were dancing, we were, more than likely, subjected to some human foolishness which made us jump about like a silly clown. You humans are forever putting yourselves, as well as members of the animal kingdom, into compromising, if not simply foolish, situations. It's a tragedy, really, if you give it some serious thought. What can we expect, though? If you were all cats, you would know better, although that would just be too many cats.

I was sitting on the white sill of the great bay window in the living room, passing my time. Ruminating on these thoughts, on the music, the wonderful light of the sun, and other things which I don't feel the need to bring to the surface at this moment. My master and his wife were sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast, reading the newspaper, and chatting noisily, as they always did. It might even resemble breakfast in your own home.

We could see each other from where we were, but neither of us paid any attention to the other, which wasn't unusual. It was enough to be near each other. I was preoccupied with my own illuminations, though, as I mentioned earlier, and really could have cared less if they knew I was there or not. If it must be known, I had seen something move outside, and, suspecting the usual source of mischief, was sure that I would catch another glimpse of that terror, the squirrel, who always did his best to arrest my attention, as if mocking me, trapped behind the glass. There. I've spotted it, now, on that low branch, holding a nut in its greedy little black fingers.

"Did you read this article about Iraq?" My master asked, folding the paper closed and looking across the small table where he and his wife were enjoying their quiet breakfast before their children awakened. The squirrel cocked its head and stared at me on the other side of the window. I was glued to the scene. I leaned forward slightly. The squirrel turned his eyes to his nut, turned it over in his hands, tried a little and then dropped it to the ground and hurried down the trunk, across the lawn, up and over the fence and out of my site. My master took up his spoon, which was followed by the sound of it clanking against a bowland then a slurping sound as he held the spoon to his lips. He was eating a bowl of cold cereal. His usual breakfast on weekends.
"About how many people died so far?" His wife responded without looking up from what she was reading.
"Yes."
"Yes." The crunch as she took a bite of the toast she held in one hand.
"And?" My master slurped another spoonful of cereal.
"And that's terrible." She responded with a mouthful of toast, little bits of wet bread shooting from her mouth, the gastronomic ammunition of a complete disregard for etiquette.
"Yes, it is."
"Are you gonna eat that?" His wife leaned over, reaching for my master's toast, untouched on his plate.
"Ftt! I've just been reading! I can't eat and read at the same time." And it was true. My master was fairly adept when attempting to complete singular actions or tasks, such as washing the occasional dish for his wife, mailing a letter or watering the garden. Combine chores like these with additional wrenches such as a ringing telephone or doorbell, one of his toes itching or just a plain lapse in concentration, and all hell breaks loose.
"Well, I didn't know if you wanted it, and it's getting cold."
"Eat it, if you want, then. I'll make another piece in a minute." I leaped down from the window sill and made my way over to the breakfast table. I began rubbing my body against my master's and his wife's legs and purring, a sure way to get some attention. "Well, hello, Buddy." I would have greeted him in the same way, although that was an impossibility, and I didn't consider too many things as such.
"He probably wants something to eat."
"Do you want something to eat, Buddy?" I walked over to my master's wife and she leaned down and started scratching me behind the ears.

*

The Bay windows were my favorite places to sit or sleep, especially in the morning when the sun was rising in all its brilliant first light, or in the afternoon when the sun was going down. My master's wife would draw the curtains and then I could sleep, both well-hidden and well-warmed, in peace for a few hours.

It was a great place to watch the world, the living museum outside, always changing, always the same, always a mystery. A dynamic museum, changing daily with the seasons and the holidays, with new neighbors and children playing in the street. Some days darkened by clouds and inclement weather, other days blind with dazzling sun or wrecked by the great winds which blew across the Earth. The comings and goings of the neighbors, the little animals—birds and squirrels who made their homes in the trees—I came to know these things. It was a free exhibition with which I was privy to on a daily basis.
- posted by Bob @ 2:51 AM 0 comments