May 2, 2015
Chapter 1: “Call me Scot-ah.” I’m writing this with special translation software, cat to English for furless apes, or you couldn’t read it. You’re welcome.
There are no names in my world. We cats go by smelling each other’s butts. Speaking of which, I can lick my own butt. You apes are so limited; you poop in bowls and the poop slides away before we Supreme Beings can really enjoy the scent.
My human, Gen-ah, calls me Scot-ah. Scot-ah could mean supper is ready, or your water bowl is fresh or the can of tuna fish is being opened. I have trained Gen-ah well. He knows the extant of the damage I can cause if my needs aren’t met.
I have a dog, a small, extra-furry dumbbell that worships me. He lives next door and only comes when I summon him. He tried to sniff my butt once. I swiped his nose bloody with my claws and that was that. Now he lies before me and whimpers a proper exaltation to my resplendent body.
I’m confined to something called a house. Gen-ah thinks I will eat his precious birds of song. Gen-ah is right. But there are plenty of live things to eat, especially in the spring. My favorite torture is The Bridge to Nowhere. I lie quietly by the bathroom door and stick out my tongue, and the ants come running up the pink bridge only to find it is one way. Ants crunch—they taste like chicken. Centipedes run across the room as if speed could save them. Gen-ah loves it when I grab a “pede” and display its squirming legs through my jaws. Pedes and spiders are loaded with protein.
I have two beds: Gen-ah’s where he only rests at night, and the winged chair in the office which has been re-covered in thick blankets of my finest fur. And there are the daybeds of Gen-ah’s sweaters and black dress shirts.
I have learned that the more coquettish I behave, the more Gen-ah jumps to serve me. He enjoys rubbing my belly, so I offer it to him in return for food. Gen-ah calls food “love.” I lie on his lap and let him chase my tail, like a fish to a lure. And I wait until he is asleep then press myself against him so tightly he can’t move.
In return, Gen-ah removes my, uh, waste products from a box—why anyone would want to remove good, smelly things, is beyond me. He feeds (“loves”) me tuna fish, salmon, cod, chicken, strawberries (well, I steal strawberries and drag them around the house until the tile floor is sticky and the carpet stained), and some dry nuggets called “cat food.” He leaves out peanut shells for me to spread all over the livingroom floor, and soggy blueberries for me bat against the wall and corn cobs for me to rip apart.
All in all, we work well together. Gen-ah isn’t bad.
He’s just not a cat.
