Portrait of the Author on Break
To tell the truth I’m really not that in to writing. It’s too much like work. I don’t do work. I might chase a mouse or swat a fly now and again, but that’s about it. Of course I spend a lot of time preening. A girl’s got to take care of herself or no one else will, and I want to be taken care of. I was born to be taken care of. That reminds me, I should to have my nails done this week.
Buckminster hates to have his nails cut. You need to have sharp nails to climb trees, he tells me.
Right. Like I want to climb trees.
The State of the Street
There’s a neighbor cat, a street cat really. Tom, his people call him when he’s late for dinner which is fairly often. He spends most of his day chasing huimming birds and comes meowing for me late at night. He’s sprayed our front door . . . twice. How totally rude! Bucks gets jealous and sits on the other side as if he expects a break in, ready to fight for me. He’s such a twit—thinks he’s a poet. He’ll undoubtedly post one of his masterpieces sooner or later, nothing worth forwarding of course, but he’s a good cat and he loves me though I doubt he would admit it, even to himself. I’m sure you will be reading things that he writes about me—silly boy. But that’s males for you, go figure.
I was at my front room window perch at 3 A.M. last night, watching to see if Tom was going to come around again. I would totally ignore him of course, but I saw the neighborhood serial killer trot by—The Coyote. It made my fur stand on end. I’m sure he killed Lulu, an in-and-outdoor cat last month. It was horrible. I could hear her screaming. She was fat enough to work as a bookend and I guess not fast enough to get away. All that was left at the scene was a bloodstained collar. I don’t want to think about it. I guess Tom is fast enough to get away from him, or maybe he’s just lucky.
"I could easily outrun the bastard," Bucks says. "I could climb a tree.”
Yeah, right. He can’t even outrun his shadow. Well, I guess no one can, but you know what I mean. He can’t even outrun me, and he’s not that great at climbing furniture either. You remember last week's thing with the boxes. I think the females of our breed are superior in a number of ways. Intelligence might be the easiest to measure.
The human male human just came downstairs. He’s usually good for a snack if I flirt with him. If Bucks wakes up he’ll try to horn in on the action, but he’s on the nod again.
I’ll probably write another page next Monday . . . or not. A female has the right to change her mind.