Posted by on Mar 14, 2013 | 1 comment

So I’m what you might call an un-cool cat in some respects, but I’m so cool in other ways that they probably balance out. For instance, I do not beg at the table. No way, no how because I’m trained to eat breakfast and dinner and that’s it. I eat when my mama and papa eat (note I do not say owners because a cat is never, never owned unless maybe you’re one of those Oriental types like the aforementioned Persians, spoiled rotten with too much food and petting, or those Egyptian creatures, those abyssinian thingys that slink around and talk all the time, boring everyone around them with  meooow, meeeow; disgusting, and whoever thought up meow in the first place; we’re not saying me-ow, there is no diphthong in there, it’s just myow, myow in many keys and it probably means that you’ve shut the door to the kitty box or won’t play the String Game just then or that you want to go out and tear the throat out of the so-called love birds that are pecking away mindlessly at those expensive crackers you put out for them; you see that’s a perfect example of my mama’s simple mind: she puts out food for the tourterelles, that’s sort of love birds in French or to be more precise, turtledoves, and what the heck, where did they get that idiotic name, turtledove? There isn’t a turtle within a hundred kilometres of my garden. So she puts out these crumbs for these birds because they mate for life and so did mama and papa and (so it’s symbolical, you see) but as I was saying, I am very well-trained, which has nothing to do with mama and her skills as a so-called cat trainer but only with my decision to use some of her lessons because it suited me; like going pee-pee on the toilet, not in a cat box. I jump onto the jon and scratch around in a neat plastic bowl mama put there to ‘train’ me and I do my thing and then cover it up, etc, etc. the way cats do and then I jump down and myow, letting my mama and papa know that I have done my duty and they should be thinking about cleaning that bowl up for the next time, because it’s a small bowl and nothing like the rose garden, which I prefer. Who wouldn’t? A rose garden for your toilette? Elegante, no? Or maybe that’s an oxymoron—one of  my favorite words. It sort of implies dumb but Oriental, oh, so smart. Like China. More on that later.

I’m still working on those words humans say because I hear them all day long but in the end, what I really hear is blah, blah, blah, kitty, kitty, blah, blah and then there’s food or snuggling or brushing (with malt paste reward-YEA!) or dry food clinking into the hand-made dish that one of mama’s friends gave her along with three others by a famous potter and she has decided that I’m to eat out of the one with little hearts on it because she loves me so much. It’s a cool dish and well-thrown and well-painted. This Ellie person must be good, but I digress. I have a lot to say about words (haha) so tomorrow I’ll let you in on that…

(I threw pots once, but onto the tile floor….uh, oh…)