Posted by Loulou on Apr 1, 2013 | 1 comment

My departed friend, Fiat, about to get scratched!

I’m so curious: What’s God or The Creator or all those other names in so many, many religions?  I hear humans talk about god this and god that and I know there is god for many, many people but if there is such a thing for kitties, it has whiskers and loves to be scratched.

I suppose humans need a god or at least something to look up to or something to blame things on, as the case may be. Because I also hear humans saying, goddamn, god forbid, god awful, and if I’m correct, they named that big black ape godzilla, god knows why, which I’ve also heard said.

As if only these many gods know things that others don’t, andmaybe that’s true, but if you asked a kitty why this or why that, you’d get a real straight answer. Because.

Most things that happen happen because.

Although I also think the opposite and believe that coincidence is fate. As in coincidentally I was passing the house I live in now and just by chance, mama was looking out her terrace door and decided to put out some tempty-baits for me, but I felt in my intuitive kitty self that she had been wanting, no, not wanting, longing for a kitty, wishing with all her might for a kitty for about two or three years, maybe more. Maybe since those no-good bums, Sushi and Luna kicked off. Well, maybe they weren’t so bad to live with when you needed some dumb-ass kitty to go ‘clunk’ the way that other black and white facsimile of a tuxedo cat did. Papa trained her so that when he came home from work or from wherever and she sidled up to the door, as was her wont, then papa’d say, Sushi, go ‘clunk’ and that kitty would flop over on her side with her little black and white paws in the air and show her tummie and just charm the pants off of everyone watching.

She knew where sardine butter came from, not to mention all those leftover chicken bones and things they gave their kitties.

Thanks to the internet, both a curse and a blessing for me (!), I am not given chicken bones or raw stuff because of parasites or choking parts or whatever they think I can’t handle but if they’d seen me in the wild, well, sort of in the wild, homeless, let’s say, they’d know that I can trap a rodent faster than a breeding pullet.

In my view, the internet can be downright dangerous for lots of reasons. Everyone and his brother is now a professional doctor, psychologist, cook, expert on just about anything because he can be with all that info on the net. But you have to interpret these things carefully. For example, if a cat chat newsletter says that kitties will choke on chicken bones so don’t give them any, that’s ok for some kitties, but I happen to know a few kitties who could digest the whole chicken, bones and all. Maybe not me, because I happen to be delicate and small and elegant and do not wolf down (no pun intended) my morning and evening repas (that’s French for food); and I, personally, don’t give a farthing for chicken bones when I can have the meat that mama saves me right off the bones that she uses in her homemade stock; likewise the meat stocks. So I’m not bothered by eating this or that or the dangers of this or that. And while I’m on a tear, where did anyone get the idea that cats shouldn’t have MILK, for $#!*^& sake? If cats weren’t supposed to have milk, where did all those fairy tales and paintings and depictions of kitties drinking out of bowls come from? It’s true that mama doesn’t give me milk, but I was lured on that last day of living-off-the-fat-‘o-the-land (that’s from Of Mice and Men, which I read cover to cover—know thine enemy!) by a nice little saucer of lait demi-ecrimée (that’s low-fat milk in French) and I was a goner for staying around that house for a long, long time.  If only to borrow the computer….