I am a cat. Well, I do prefer “feline” because it has a lot more class to the sound of it than “cat”. “Cat” sounds like mat, brat, gnat, scat, flat, fat and…heaven forbid…rat. Oh, well. Humans are vastly inferior in intellect and powers than felines, but, since they talk to each other in a language that I do not choose to utter (knowing that if I spoke I would be quickly placed in a science lab for “cat scans”), I am rather stuck in the rut of letting humans call me “a cat”. Oh, well. I don’t need anyone else to validate my self-worth, anyway. If they chose to call me a helicopter I would just silently laugh at their foolishness. I love watching humans. Felines watch their humans, and then turn away, blinking and pretending to be sleepy, or bored, but we are analyzing humans more than they will ever know. Sometimes they will say, “Look! The cat is smiling!” It’s sometimes actually internalized laughter. We entertain ourselves by what we see, smell, and hear. We aren’t ever bored.
I’m keeping a journal on an old personal computer that the male human of this household stuffed into his closet, when he bought some newer model. It’s hilarious how humans covet other’s belongings. There’s nothing wrong with this older p.c., other than being a tiny bit slower, but every human covets thy neighbor’s belongings, even if they claim they follow all of those Ten Commandments, in that fat black book written so long ago, and of which they consider to be the basis for which to judge others. I read that coveting is one of the big-big “sins”. They don’t think they covet, but they do. We felines don’t. We are entirely amused with merely our own thoughts, and belongings. (Felines own everything in a house, whether we use it, or not. The people living here, the Guebucketts, bought for me a new washer and dryer, recently. I don’t even wear clothes.)
Anyway, yes, I was saying that I’m keeping a journal of my thoughts. Well, that and the fun things I help cause to happen, sometimes. I love to play practical jokes on my human beings, even if the pranks tend to be impractical. They never suspect I am behind it all, because they believe I am rather simple-minded.
The male human sometimes make jokes like, “I’m going to work, Buford (the name they imposed on me), so you be a good little kitty and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do! Ha-ha-ha-ha!” (He really does laugh like that. He says, “Ha-ha-ha-ha”, as if he learned how to laugh by reading a theatrical script.) They have, however, no idea that is not a joke. When they are gone, I quite often do engage in the very things that they do, and I most definitely do many things they wouldn’t do, too, but I clean up all evidence before they get home. At one time I could easily ignore being called “Kitty”, but I find it more annoying, now, because they had me “fixed”. The demasculinization was bad enough, but now I cringe at “Kitty”, because it sounds like the name of a barmaid.
Many people think cats aren’t very smart. That’s a pity. Of course, felines were very “sacred” long ago. Back then, we did not have to walk around in a small house, being talked to as if we are about as smart as the waffle iron. The Egyptians, for example, knew we felines had powers that were quite magnificent. We have always been very intelligent by being very observant and perceptive, thinking all of the time. Intuitiveness is a developed skill, merely by using all of the senses at the same time. We were treated like royalty, quite revered in the past, and rightly so. Humans practically worshiped felines.
Now…well, I don’t know why modern humans have taken on delusions of grandeur for themselves, when they most definitely took a sudden decline in mentality, long ago, some time after the Great Pyramids were engineered (humans of today still don’t know how the pyramids were built). The marvelous accomplishments of my own feline ancestors were obvious to even the most casual observer, back then, and some of the greatest felines can be seen in ancient art.
Yes, felines are magnificent. We don’t just lay around contemplating plastic balls with bells inside, nor do we dream of having fifty stuffed mice, covered in dust mites, to place in our mouths. If a feline looks lethargic, be quiet. We may be meditating. We may be trying to communicate through telepathic powers, with felines elsewhere. (But, then again, we may be having a bit of gastrointestinal distress from a hairball. We don’t bathe with washcloths, you know.)
But, anyway, it’s a Monday. I don’t care at all about the date on the calendar of my humans. Time and space are so deep, a twelve-page picture-clad timekeeper, to me, is irrelevant. Oh, sure, it gets my humans to work and to church on time, but Quantum Physics hold the true meaning of time, and, since I’m not on any time schedule at all, I sometimes knock the calendar off of the refrigerator and shred it up, for fun. Once upon a time, a day was a millennium. I measure my days by meals, and by the events of sleeping in a bed with two portly, somewhat odiferous, and slovenly but kind humans. That would be Bob and Edna Guebuckett. They are actually quite nice. I think I’ll keep them.
Bob is a sixty-year-old, gentle dentist. He often chews with his front teeth, to keep his gums healthy, as he says. When he does so, he resembles a large, pink bunny. Edna, on the other hand, is fifty-something, short, and stout. She can somehow even manage to eat a piece of lettuce carnivorously, like a starving feral dog with some fresh carrion. Oh, well. They are decent human beings, for the most part, and they pay my bills on time. My shed fur can get all over their dark clothing, and they will just remove it with a wad of duct tape after they brush their teeth. They never get mad at me for anything. They are from England, but moved to America a few years ago. I had heard that the Brits were a bit anal retentive, but these two aren’t. Humans tend to stereotype when things are different from what they grew up thinking to be factual, based on the teachings of their parents. Pity.
If my humans cannot be swayed from believing I am dim, I can at least enjoy all of the cheap thrills I can get from acting like a dumb pet. I do that often, actually. It’s great fun. I’ll write about some of the head-games I play with my humans. In fact, here is one:
This morning I got up, stretched, yawned, and walked in circles, “meowing” (as they call it). This is a fun game I play with their heads. If I just keep walking in small circles, it gets them quite alarmed. Sometimes I will walk in small circles for quite awhile before they notice. Then the fun begins.
“Look at Buford. What do you think is wrong with him?” asked Bob, the man of the house, as he watched me from his bed, this morning.
“I don’t know. He’s doing that strange thing of walking in small circles, meowing, again,” the wife, Edna, verbalized while staring at me as if she thought my head was going to pop off and fly around the room.
“Maybe he knows something we don’t know! Hahahaha!”
“Of course I do. I know a million things you don’t know, and you have a very goofy laugh, too, Bob”, I thought. “Since they believe they are the wiser species, let’s step this game up a notch.” I stopped to sniff a spot right in the center of my tight circular arena of fun. There was not any special scent there. I was just playing my game.
“Do you suppose he smells something under the carpet?” asked Edna.
“What would be under the carpet, Dear? A gleaming pirate treasure? Perhaps a medallion made from a bit of petrified halibut. Is that what you’re thinking, Sweetheart?”
“Don’t be so condescending, Bob. You truly do think you’re funny when you make fun of my ideas, don’t you? No-no, I was thinking more along the lines of a mouse.”
“A mouse? Alive, you mean? Scurrying around under the carpet? Might I remind you our house is built on a concrete slab. There’s no basement. There’s no crawlspace. There’s nothing at all in which a mouse could be scurrying in, so the mouse would have to be as flat as a stick of gum to be under the carpet.”
I was getting great entertainment out of their banter. I decided to step it up another notch by clawing at the spot in the carpet. Humans hate it when felines stick out their claws and begin unraveling things.
“A bug! Yes, Bob! I bet it is a bug! Oh, Heavens! If Buford kills it with his claws it will start to smell! Dead bugs can smell, sometimes. Remember when the dog rubbed his head on a dead bug in the backyard? It was absolutely putrid! I had to wash his head two times! I don’t want a dead bug under the carpet!”
Edna, I might point out, was an obsessive-compulsive worrier. She, being a rotund fifty-five-year-old, low-to-the-ground leathery ball of flesh, and having way too much gray hair that is constantly unkempt, is often a source of amusement for me just to look at her. Our Lady of Perpetual Bed-Hair, by the way, is the one who decided to call me Buford. I would have much rather preferred Mercury, or Orion.
“Oh, jeez, he’s clawing at it, now. I bet it’s just a speck of veal parmesan, or a drop of milk,” Bob pondered, aloud.
“Sniff it, Bob! He’s going to tear up the carpet! Find out what it is!”
I’ve never torn up the carpet in this particular prank, before, but it did seem like it could be a new twist to this game of getting their dander up. Just then, however, Bob jumped out of bed in his red and white striped pajamas, with the fly unsnapped and gaping wide open, which I wished he would someday realize was disgusting to behold. He put his tall, pear-shaped body down on the floor, gently pushing me out of the way. He, in a fetal position of sorts, put his balding pink head down to the floor, and actually listened. He was listening to the carpet. I kid you not. His few tufts of red hair were being pulled into a point from static electricity, so it looked like that of a Cu-pie Doll.
“I don’t hear anything,” he said.
“Do you expect to hear veal parmesan? Food was your idea. We’ve passed the mouse notion. Sniff it! Sniff it!” Edna yelled, as she balanced on her cantaloupe-shaped knees, upon the bed. She looked more bovine than usual.
I stood back, and did nothing but watch. I knew there was nothing at all there, and it was time to just watch the show of gullible human panic.
Bob put his nose near the carpet. Of course he didn’t smell anything other than the normal mustiness of the entire carpet through-out the house, so he put his nose right on the fibers. He sniffed, and sniffed, until his nostrils were pushed upward, like that of a pig’s snout. His head, with only the few small wisps of orange hair, jerked up suddenly and he blew his nose into his bare hand.
“Confound it, Edna! I’ve got fuzz in my nose, now!” He blurted out, with some snot and spittle punctuating the end.
Bob stood up, and scratched his right buttock, as he said. “I don’t smell anything there at all.”
Sensing the fun was about to end, I let out a terrifying howl, pounced on the spot, and began to paw frantic-like. Bob jumped back down on all fours, and he began to scratch at the spot, himself. Have you ever seen a giant Cu-pie Doll wearing striped pajamas, trying to dig in the dirt? I didn’t think so. I haven’t, either, but the image flashed through my brain.
“What is it Buford? God! What the hell is it? Jeez-Louise! What the heck???” Bob uttered, frightened.
Having stepped back with all four of my paws, I arched my back like a “Halloween Cat”, and let out an extremely long, blood-curdling howl, with my eyes open as wide as they could go. I stuck a few hisses in there, which actually made Edna stand up in the bed, and shriek. I suppose it is the natural human male ego to want to be a hero. Testosterone can cause funny things to occur. He opened his nightstand drawer in one huge tug, nearly pulling the drawer off its tracks, reached in, and pulled out a Swiss Army knife.
“Oh, my God!” screamed Edna. “What is it? Kill it! Kill it, Bob!””
Back on all fours, Bob recklessly cut a square the size of his palm out of the carpet, half cutting and half ripping, and flung the shredded waste aside. He stared at the gaping hole. There was nothing there, of course.
“What the hell was it?” Bob said, embarrassed at his hasty actions. “What….uh…what… I…uuh…what the…?”
“Maybe it’s crawled in another direction! Find it! Find it!” Edna wailed.
“I’m not going to dig up the whole carpet, Edna….I…I…oh, Jeez…I don’t know what it was. Oh, my. Wow. I’m so sorry. It…it…oh, my gosh.”
Edna cautiously slid out of the bed, and kneeled down to look at the hole in the carpet. They both stared at it, out of breath, not saying a word. Small carpet fibers speckled the rest of the carpet like maggots in a trashcan. The raggedly removed patch had landed on the nightstand. I walked into the utility room, and had my morning bowel movement in my assigned pan. I had a sip of water, and went to curl up in a nice sunbeam on the kitchen floor.