Wednesday, April 13, 2005

Guest Artist

Today tastes like cat food. Pretty much every day tastes like cat food, when you’re a cat. Which I am.

I deign to live in the same space as my big pink monkeys, Spike and Gareth. They call me Rodentia. Sometimes I answer to it. If I’m in the mood. Vishnu, my species-sibling (we’re not littermates at all. We don’t even smell alike.) (And I’m not so sure about the “species” part, either. I think she’s a dog in a cat suit, and one day, I’m going to find the zipper. I will show the monkeys the terrible monster that has been living under their big pink slow noses all this time.) lives with us, too. Sometimes she licks my ear hat. Sometimes she’s okay.

I am sitting in front of this big black box without moving pictures, poking at the keys. Just like Spike. (I suppose that makes me a copycat.) (She calls this thing “a chunk of glorified sand.” I don’t know why. I know what sand is, and what it’s used for, and this isn’t it. Then again, my sand doesn’t have little buttons to poke.) She spends a lot of time in here, doing just that. I’m not sure why she finds it so entertaining. But then, she doesn’t see why I can sit and watch the light shift about on the wall for minutes and minutes and minutes. (Must have to do with thumbs. Cats gotta look, birds gotta taste good, Thumbed Ones gotta poke.) But I must admit that the smooth plastic keys feel good on my paws.

Sorry about that. I blinked, and the screensaver came on, and I was watching fish swim by. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, fish. How can a word that hisses at the end mean something so ineffably yummy?

Spike says you can find anything on the 'web--pet supplies, patterns for catnip mice, recipies for Shrimp Toes. I'm looking for plans for world domination a massage table for my monkeys. Any suggestions?

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