It finally happened as I knew it always would happen; as cat people all over the world know someday it will happen to them and as even non-cat people suspect it happens despite them being dog people and extremely jealous and hateful of any outward manifestation of feline superiority.
I talked to my cats last night. And they talked back.
What’s that? The answer is no more than usual but I wouldn’t have wanted to take a breathalizer. And because I know you’re curious, Ebony, the liberal’s liberal, sipped several bottles of my best Fritz Haag Estate Riesling and nibbled on Edam cheese all night while wise old conservative Aramas went through my entire stock of Courvosier (VSOP) and the little angel Snowball was knocking back chocolate/Rasberry milkshakes as fast as I could make them – that is, until Ebony, tiring of the youngster’s interruptions and attention getting antics, strongly cuffed the little girl across the ear, sending her rolling like a ten pin out into the kitchen.
Cats make great parents. The little one was barely heard from again for the rest of the night.
Now I know what you’re saying. Even if cats could talk, they wouldn’t be political animals. And before last night, I probably would have agreed with you. But the way Ebony explained it, everything makes perfect sense.
Cats are not so mysterious or otherworldly as much as they exist in a world of emotional and psychic intensity that is so foreign, so unfamiliar to us humans that it seems to put the beasts on a separate plane of existence.
They are, in effect, the barbarians of the animal world. They are the Visigoths sacking Rome, ravaging without pity or remorse. Now what do you suppose the politics of the Visigoths were all about? Or the Huns, or Vandals, or any number of other pagan hordes who swept across Europe, bringing about 1000 years of darkness, disease, and death not to mention unpronounceable names and really bad teeth?
Pretty basic at that. Cat’s are not sophisticated creatures but they are direct and will tell you exactly what they think about any issue under the sun. For instance, my old girl Ebony (who swears she wouldn’t have voted for Clinton if she had the opportunity but thinks that Noam Chomsky is the cat’s meow), is blaming Bush for the massacre at Virginia Tech.
“It’s Bush’s fault,” she said, her tail whipping furiously back and forth showing her displeasure. “The nutcase who did this was obviously inspired by the violence going on in Iraq.”
“Put a sssssssssssock in it,” hissed Aramas. “Can’t you see that it was the guy’s parents who are at fault here?” The old kitty’s face assumed a “wisdom of the ages” look – the kind of look that cats get when they watch PBS - “As usual, you are delusional when it comes to Bush. You even blamed him for the Imus flap.”
“Imus is a penis! Imus is a penis!” screeched the baby Snowball, rolling around at my feet begging for another milkshake. The two adults exchanged knowing looks with Aramas taking the responsibility. He sauntered over and buried his teeth in Snowball’s shoulder causing the youngster to yowl in pain and make a beeline for the cat condo where she climbed to the topmost perch and looked out in fright over the carpeted cat rest. Ebony cast a baleful glance in her direction telling the baby with her eyes that no more interruptions would be welcome.
And so it went, far into the night. The more wine she drank, the louder Ebony got, sometimes breaking into hysterical laughter when talking about how stupid Bush had acted in some crisis or another. She mewled uncontrollably when talking about the war and became absolutely incoherent when trying to convince us that 9/11 was an inside job.
For Aramas, the more brandy he drank, the more sense he made. Or maybe it was because I was drinking as much as he was. He stopped trying to rebut Ebony’s charges and would simply whack her across the nose when she said something really stupid. This would send the two of them tumbling into a heap of a catfight, neither one doing much damage due to their diminished capacity. And just as suddenly as they began, they would stop, taking turns licking each other and quietly nursing their drinks. Until Ebony would blurt out something ridiculous and the fur would fly again.
Sometime toward morning, I tried to change the subject to cat behavior but both of them looked at me as if I was some kind of dog. I distinctly got the impression that both of them felt it was none of my business why they would spend hours just looking at me and what they were thinking (although Ebony continually licked her lips, salivating at the thought of something when I asked what was on her mind when she was staring at me with an intensity that would put 150 watt bulb to shame).
I finally fell asleep sometime around dawn. When I awoke, I was confused. Had I dreamt the entire episode? Can cats really talk?
I’ll have to ask them when they wake up…
8:12 pm
I love this post! It’s so much fun. I’m thinking my Oreo is an independent. He doesn’t want to be pinned down on anything, just goes with the flow. He does have that disturbing little black patch of fur directly under his nose, though.
Now, Max the dog, is the perfect companion. I talk and he listens, occassionally cocking his head to indicate interest in a conversational point.
8:52 pm
I, too, have conversations with my cats… and they do indeed, talk back. One of them is obviously an Ambassador from the Home World, and informs me of how inadequate are all things from those that should be supplying his every need. He is most emphatic that nothing bad has ever come from the large box shaped thing in the kitchen that is cold on the outside and has a warm draft under it, perfect for warming paws. It is, obviously, the most important thing to serve his needs around… and those two legged creatures are just not up to the job of meeting his needs adequately.
Yea and verily, do I have speaks with that one.
His goofy brother, on the other hand, is more into the ‘Ooooo shiny!’ mentality and often has an attention span that would put him into the world of gnats. He doesn’t talk much, although he, too, complains a lot…. mostly about being lost… in the living room… the stairway… the hallway… various bedrooms and bathrooms. He will go to the largest open space available and proclaim that he is lost. Repeatedly. At length. And he will go looking for these two-legged creatures in their regular haunts and then look at you and complain that you are in another room. The one with the door closed. ‘Yes you are here, can you go in there and get yourself?’
Between these two brothers they are two average cats intelligence-wise.
The only thing I ask of the Ambassador is that when the Mother Ship comes, to take me with him and off of this strange world. I am obviously on the wrong one and if anyone can find the right one, he can.
7:21 am
I took a poll of my seven furry felines sociopaths with the following results:
Four Libertarians
One anarchist
Two non-particpatory in political processes
7:24 am
(comment cut off accidentally; here’s the whole thing)
I took a poll of my seven furry felines sociopath with the following results:
One right-wing reactionary
Three Libertarians
One anarchist
Two non-participatory in political processes (or in little else, aside from eating, that takes more than minimal effort)
I’m proud to say, that after carefully questioning them on a variety of topics—including but not limited to economics, social policy, foreign policy, national defense, the constitutional right to bear arms, and federal vs. state and local responsibility for hurricane relief—I found nary a socialists-democrat or communist among them. Being practical and individualistic creatures, they express perplexity at liberal support of both programs and people who don’t work. So, what to do about hunger? I asked. “Let them eat mice,” Pumpkin said.
Oh, they were more or less united on one thing; since any time anything happens in America a poll is taken to determine what our superior European brothers think of us—always with negative results—we should legalize the hunting of pollsters.
Oh, and they all agreed that we should immediately nuke all the wheat-gluton factories in China. If nothing else, do it for the kittens, mewed a pleading voice from the crowd. I suspect someone has been watching CNN behind my back.
9:57 am
My baby Tim says that Snowball should take an immediate stand against the child abuse being visited upon her by Ebony and Aramas. If necessary she should call Cat Protective Services. Tim is a liberal, obviously.
On the other hand, big brother Sam (who knows a thing or six about being mercilessly annoyed by a younger sibling – and a Siamese at that) says that his breed (Maine Coon) rarely needs to engage in violence due to their superior size. When discipline is required, one only needs to plant ones substantial fundament on the offending party to ensure proper behavior. I suspect Sam of being a conservative, although he remains evasive on the subject. When you weigh 25 pounds, you can pretty much do what you want! And he does.
6:15 pm
hahaha! I loved this post.
And one of the reasons I continue to come back here to read.
You are one fine writer Rick Moran!
(My favorite is the insight that cats are visigoths. I would’ve pegged them as anarchists, which reminds me of the Geo Carlin line that Libertarians are anarchists with credit cards.)
12:09 am
live adult chat…
A LONG, THOUGHTFUL CONVERSATION WITH MY CATS…