Thoughts by Star, the Feline Overlord and Master of Richard Bleil
This is my season. I’m not just any cat, but I’m a black cat at that. You all fear me, so you might want to keep me happy. The hey mister, the guy who cleans my litter box, tells me that I’m his familiar. I don’t know what that means, but it better not be an insult.
In ancient Egyptian times, they worshiped my kind as living embodiments of the Gods. They had the right idea. This human isn’t bad. He feeds me wet food every morning, and a handful of food every afternoon. It’s meant to calm my skin which has been itchy this summer, but it’s feeling better now that it’s colder. Plus, he gives me treats. Not always on cue like he should, but I scream at him and call him names until eventually he capitulates.
I think that today it’s not very different. Hey mister doesn’t like to move when I decide to nap on him. He’s kind of lumpy as a bed, but he seems to have a self-warming mechanism built in, so that’s good. A year ago, I noticed that a lot of you monkeys like to dress up with ears like ours, and whiskers like ours, but we don’t look quite so leggy as you all. You should be ashamed. We keep our legs short and powerful for pouncing. What’s the point of the sticks you have on your undercarriage, and why do you only walk on two of your legs? How obscene. It’s far more efficient to walk on four legs. You should try it. But if you’re dressing like us, at least that means that you put us on the pedestal on which we belong.
Pedestals are great, by the way. They’re nice and high. And, yes, it’s appropriate that you bald monkeys all have to look up to us when we’re there, but it’s also a great vantage point to pounce on you all.
The hey mister is in the middle of his annual horror movie marathon, but I noticed that none of them have humans running from cats. I’d pay to see that one, but I’d cheer for the cat.
So how does this work? People come to the door, and my human gives them things? They must taste terrible, whatever they are, because he knows not to give it to me. I want real food. And not just that dry stuff. I want the wet food. It’s so much better.
When he eats, he seems to think he is entitled to his own food. How absurd. What’s mine is mine, and what’s his is mine, too. I have to fight to get him to let me paw and chew his food, and when I’m done, he can have the leftover scraps. He doesn’t need all of that food anyway. Today he had buffalo short ribs. Boy did he fight to keep me away from his ribs. I guess I don’t blame him, though. I’m a god, and you know what happened when a god got hold of one of a man’s ribs. That was the beginning of chaos. Nothing was ever the same. My human would say that being with a woman makes things better, but let’s be honest. Women are idols because they draw my human’s attention away from me, his lord. Women are pure evil. That’s why I won’t let him have one of his own. Besides, I don’t think he’s earned one yet. Maybe when he grows up a little bit, but I’m not cleaning up after her! She’ll be his responsibility to feed and clean up her poop!
I don’t even know how it works. Do women use the toilet like the hey mister does, or does she poop in litter like a civilized creature?
I wonder how many humans will come for treats this year? Heck, I wonder if he’ll even be home? He works late at night these days. He says that he’s working at a drive-in theater, whatever that is. I think it’s just some place that big humans go to make more little humans. I like scratching the little humans when they try to pet me. Serves them right. They’ll learn.
But the point is that the haunting season is upon us. You all should dress as you gods, that is, cats, and talk around scratching up your furniture. Give lots of treats to my kind, the felines, because, let’s face it, most of you don’t really deserve treats anyway. Treats? Did somebody say treats? Later! I’m off to see who said treats and get some!
Bleil's Banter 