C.W. looked up from my laptop and said nothing. He began to
type, biting on an unlit pipe he uses as a prop when he prepares his reports to
the Falloonian Elders. He assumes the shape of, oh, I don’t know, Arthur Miller or some playwright. I
waited until he finished typing and had looked up at me before I asked again. “What
are you writing about?”
“Ailuromania.”
“Ailura what?
“Ailuromania … a passion for cats.”
“Oh,” I said, “like the way some folks allow them to rule
their lives? I’ve heard that can happen.”
He looked at me over wire-rimmed glasses and said nothing.
“What?” I said. “We only keep four cats at this old
farmhouse. Well … sometimes five, but never more.”
He continued to look at me for a moment and then turned to the
laptop. He made a couple of strokes and looked back. Without removing his gaze,
he turned the computer screen toward me.
“That’s just BuddhaCat,” I said. “She looked so cute I had
to snap that shot and post it.”
“And why,” he said, “do you call it BuddhaCat?”
“It’s a she,” I said. “A she. Don’t hurt her feelings.”
His gaze bore into me.
“She may be a little overweight,” I said.
“A little?”
“She enjoys eating,” I said. “Isn’t she cute?”
He punched a key. Another image arose. “And?”
“Oh, I said, “that’s Sarah Palin walking on the piano. You
should have heard the sound. I called it ‘The Catwalk Rhapsody’ and was going
to record it but she jumped down.”
“Sarah Palin?”
“She’s not the smartest cat in the county,” I said. “But she’s
so pretty.”
He punched the keyboard again. “Look at that,” I said. “There’s
Buttons sleeping on my wife’s lap.”
“Why does Mrs. Big Dope display that strained expression?”
“Oh,” I said, “she was needing a bathroom break. Real bad.”
“Why didn’t she take one?”
“What,” I said, “and wake Buttons up?”
“And you posted all of these on your VisagePage?”
“On FaceBook, yes.”
“Let me read you some of what I’ve written,” he said.
“Oh, pray do.”
He returned the computer screen to his document and read: “Approximately
33 percent of American households domicile a creature know as a ‘cat.’ More
than half of those homes have more than one cat in the house. This creature—scientific
name Felis catus—is an arrogant,
selfish, uncaring, insensitive …”
“Stop,” I said. “They’ll hear you.” I ran to the door and closed
it.
“Greedy and self-centered species that allows humans to care
for it and attend its every need without displaying any gratitude whatsoever.
Humans become quite obsessive about caring for cats’ needs and will even take
sick days from work to stay home and tend a cat that pretends to be ill.”
“She only did that once,” I said, “and that was a long time
ago.”
“Otherwise mature and sensible humans have been known to
dress their cats in fake outfits and post their photographs on social media
outlets.”
“Did you see the one with the little vest and necktie?” I
said.
“They are most devious and secretive in their habits and
display a marked tendency toward demonstrating their low regard for their
keepers.”
“No,” I said. “Ours would never do that?”
He looked at me. “Would you be interested to know,” he said,
“that I caught the three females gathered around your laptop this morning?”
 |
| If this creature is "a little overweight," then I'm a visitor from "a little ways away" from here. - C.W. |
He punched the computer and turned it toward me again. There,
in a highly evocative and erotic design, was the home page of a site called “Cat-Sex
Fever,” purporting to offer scenes that would delight and titillate the
discerning and (term deleted by editor) female and to “get her fancy footwork
in gear for her Tom.”
“You are being unfair and gratuitously scandalous,” I said.
I was going to say more but was interrupted by three loud crashes and the sound
of broken glass from the kitchen. “I’ve got to go,” I said. “We’ll discuss your
libeling of these sweet creatures further.”
“What happened?” he said.
“Nothing,” I said. “That’s just their way of letting us know
that they are ready to be fed.”
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