Since I usually sit on my owner's lap while she writes this column trying hard to keep my constructive criticism in check, I thought it would be appropriate for me to take it over this month. So don't turn that page. I am in control here. Control is big with me and it has nothing to do with what my owner embarrassingly refers to as my cute little half-a-Hitler moustache. Think about it. Because of our small size and largely obsolete functions (how many of you currently live in a home with a serious rodent problem?) we have our work cut out for us: to keep humans convinced that we are absolutely indispensable to their well-being and to continue living the lifestyle to which we've become accustomed.
Since that fateful day nine years ago when I wailed pathetically at my owner through the bars of that shelter cage, convincing her that rescuing me would put her on a par with Albert Schweitzer, I have worked my claws to the quick to train this woman. It's been an uphill climb. Let's put it this way: if she were a Golden retriever, she'd have two legs to go to get her CD.
If my manipulative nature offends you, you already know my take on that: tough tuna. Look upon it as a culture clash. Cats don't hide behind the niceties employed by humans, we're too honest for that. If we want a head rub or a chin tickle, our body language makes Madonna look shy. If you don't get the message head on, we'll get up close and personal with our hind ends, giving a whole new meaning to the phrase "in your face." It's simply a matter of mastering cat-speak and it can be done, even if your head fur is blonde.
Before you get your back up and start comparing us to tyrants, dictators or Newt Gingrich, let me remind you we live by different rules. Slavery, for example, has never been outlawed in the cat world. We like it. When we stare at that food dish, we want to see you jump. We want to hear the whirr of that electric can opener, not some lame excuse. When we sit on your head by the dawn's early light, we want you on your feet, chop chop, sprinting for the kitchen, not whining and hiding under those blankets to snore some more.
We recognize your usefulness as a handy human hot water bottle on cold nights. And please don't make us lose respect for you by wimping out if we do a little claw kneading on your bare chest. Why not appreciate the fact that it's our way of showing contentment? If you don't need stitches, don't be a wuss!
To keep us both sharp, training must be frequent and consistent. I test my owner nightly, usually between 3 and 5 a.m., on her speed at jumping out of bed to let me out the window when I rattle the Venetian blinds. When I pretend I'm trapped on the roof on her ranch house, she'll drop everything to run out on the porch to catch me in a basket as I perform my death defying leap. If she used her head instead of her hormones she'd be wise to the fact that I could climb back down the same way I got up. Duh! But it's a handy trick for a boring afternoon, guaranteeing at least fifteen minutes of lap time.
In her kitchen, the Holy of Holies, my owner has a sign she picked up at a yard sale, one of those open air events you humans hold where you line up all your trash on the lawn after you've cleaned out your cage. Painted with cutesy-poo hearts and flowers with some feline poster pets grinning insipidly, it reads: "One can never have too many cats." Wrong. She's up to six at last count, two short-haired and formerly homeless like myself, smart enough to get out of my way when I'm headed for the food dish and to abandon ship when I'm stalking the sofa.
Then there are the Fluffies, two Himalayans and a Persian, the ones I refer to as Houseplants with Hair or furry Forrest Gumps. Look, I've never made it a secret, I don't get chummy with Chia Pets. Let's put it this way: if these guys accidentally got out on the porch, they'd have to call AAA to map out the route home. If they had to rely on their ancestral hunting heritage to survive, they'd starve to death even though on many occasions I have personally demonstrated the quickest way to get fresh mouse victuals as they sat gagging in the window. (They don't call me Hannibal Lecter for nothing!)
My owner knows how I feel. I don't stand in line to use their indoor porta-potty and she doesn't bother me with their jingle balls or feather fishing poles. She wouldn't dare.
Anyway, she's somewhere in the Caribbean, probably sipping a Pina Colada, another of her annoying habits. You think we act stupid on catnip? Maybe she's heading for the beach to catnap on her towel, a bad mistake for a flamepoint human, but will she listen? The day that woman gets a tan is the day I turn cute and cuddly. And talk about bad hair days, she had a bad hair month the last time she came home with those corn rows in her hair. She looked like her own worst nightmare of a bad poodle haircut.
While Miss World Traveler is away, the dogs are at some canine Club Med. (There is a God!) She hired a pet sitter for us cats, a nervous young lady who can always be counted on to scream when I ambush her ankles, but basically she feeds, scoops and skedaddles. Unlike my owner, she doesn't share her views on world peace, the state of the economy or new recipes for tuna casserole. As for those Pillow Puffs, I have to shake them every once in a while to make sure they haven't fallen into a coma. Dullsville.
We'll liven things up later this week with our annual Hairball Festival, an Olympic event in the cat world with scoring based on speed, distance and accuracy. Even though those feline Barbie Dolls have been self-grooming for a month in preparation, I expect to win again like I did last year with that shot across the den directly into one of my owner's Lion King slippers. (I'm not saying she has big feet, but I fell in love with one of those babies before I realized it was footwear.)
In closing, I'll leave you with a few Cat Commandments:
Guess I'll catch up on last weeks's funnies and see how my man Garfield is doing, then I'll spit at the kids when they get off the school bus. It helps pass the time 'til that owner of mine comes to her senses and gets her tail back home where she belongs. Your feline fill-in,
Spike