I’m an expert on modern decor. What, were you expecting me to say, “I’m no expert on modern decor? Why would I say that? Short of picking your nose and eating it, I don’t think there’s a faster way to get people to stop listening to you than by starting a declarative sentence with “I’m no expert, but…” That’s why I prefer to lie and say I’m an expert about every single topic of conversation. For example, at the ballet last week I turned to Wife and said, “I’m an expert on post-impressionist interpretive dance. This performance stinks.” Therefore, seeing as I am an expert on modern decor, you have no choice but to listen to me when I say the wave of the high-end furniture future is…trash cans. How do I know this? I have engineered a fool-proof system that can determine whether any given object is comfortable to sit on: New Cat. If New Cat sits on something, you can bet your buns it’s comfortable. Sure, I can be skeptical about the comfort level of some of New Cat’s napping spots at first – a pile of winter hats, gloves, and scarves looks lumpy and unstable to the untrained eye – but once I try them myself, I immediately realize the wrror of my eays. So when I walked downstairs, flipped on the lights, and saw New Cat catching some z’s in a overturned trash can, I didn’t think twice. I raced to the garage, flipped over a garbage can, and climbed inside. And do you know what it smelled like lounging in that garbage can? The future.
Roses are red, violets are blue, I threw up on the carpet, I’m going to go take a nap. It’s Valentine’s Day, and Cat and New Cat are really pulling out all the stops to show me and Wife just how much they love us. For example, this morning Cat let me feed him without slashing my ankles, and New Cat only vomited on our area rug a little bit. It’s moving gestures like these that remind us why we put up with the midnight maulings, high-speed pursuits that somehow always result in broken glass, and incessant, round-the-clock whining. The only problem is that I have no idea what gifts to get them. Shopping for a human on Valentine’s Day is easy enough, but cats can’t eat chocolate, they tip over flower vases just so they can watch you mop up, and they certainly can’t read sentimental notes on overpriced greeting cards. Come to think of it, they do enjoy sparkly things. Does Jared have a feline tennis bracelet or diamond claw ring? What about a bag of rubies? Would Cat enjoy batting around thousands of dollars worth of catnip-scented, precious gems? Even if he would, where am I going to come up with that kind of dough? I suppose I could steal the gems from a rich person’s house or a museum, which would make me a literal cat burglar. I would be known as Robin Cat – the fearless outlaw who robs from the rich to give jewels to his cats. Let’s just hope that the judge overseeing my sentencing isn’t a dog person.
Well, this is a first. I’ve had cats in my lap. I’ve had laptops in my lap. But never both at the same time. Either Cat has been reading my blog and wants to get a behind-the-scenes look at how the sausage is made, or I mistook a bag of catnip for oregano and used it in my omelet this morning. Whatever the reason, I’m actually finding that writing on a CatTop is a breeze. Not only does it encourage proper typing posture – as any unauthorized movements will result in swift pinkie removal – but it also keeps you warm. Technically speaking, one CatTop possesses the warming ability equivalent to two goose down comforters. If you are ever suffering from hypothermia, simply bring a cat to a Best Buy and head to the computing department. Of course, why you are suffering from hypothermia in a region with ready access to cats and Best Buys is anyone’s guess. Perhaps you have fallen into a fountain at an outdoor mall. It’s difficult to say, as your teeth won’t stop chattering. Heck, you don’t need a Best Buy, you can just borrow mine! Trust me, after just a few minutes of holding my CatTop you will feel like a panther sunbathing in the Everglades. Here, let me just try to move it. One moment. Hmm. CatTop doesn’t seem to want to budge. Perhaps you should head to the nearest hospital, instead? You’re turning blue.
I think New Cat has a problem. Ever since we decided to let her outside (after she literally dumped a glass of water onto my head in protest of her wrongful imprisonment), she has been logging progressively longer bouts of absenteeism, sometimes lasting two or three days. Thankfully, she always comes back. But when she does she’s so strung out that she winds up sleeping for 24-36 hours, which of course causes her to stay out later and longer on her next walkabout. In other words, she’s Lindsay Lohan. Of course, instead of doing drugs or making ill-advised career decisions, New Cat frolics. She frolics so hard that she gets a frolic hangover and can barely keep her kibble down. Last night I almost sat on her because I thought she was a Beanie Baby. This morning I tried to have a frank conversation with her about her frollicking, but she just stared at me with this glazed look on her face, like she couldn’t understand the words coming out of my mouth. Yes, she rolled over onto her back and offered me the privilege of giving her a belly rub, but I could tell it wasn’t sincere. All I know is that we’re running out of options here. Maybe I should follow her on one of her frolic binges. You know – dress in all black, glue some pine cones to my body for camouflage, and tail her through the neighborhood in the middle of the night. That’s a good idea, right?
It finally happened. Yes, I’m talking about Cat attempting to take over the world – how did you guess? Probably because I am you. You are? Yes, you are having a conversation with yourself. OK. Anyway, it’s true. Last night, Wife and I were playing a full-contact game of Risk with our dear friends, Friend and Friendy, when Cat reached his paw onto the board and wiped out Irkutsk like he was stepping on an ant in high heels (in this metaphor, Cat is wearing high heels, not the ant, although I could see how an ant wearing high heels could be rather humorous). Shocking, I know. Not only because Cat typically reserves his aggression for my milky white calf muscles, but also because the Irkutsk Coat of Arms is a Siberan tiger with a sable in its mouth. He basically destroyed his Homeland! Granted, I can understand why Cat might want to obliterate Irkutsk. It’s hard to pronounce, it’s not in a very good strategic location, and the word Irkutsk itself makes me think of a walrus sneezing. Actually, that last one is more endearing than irritating. But my opinion is irrelevant. What we are dealing with here is a cold, calculating, sociopathic mastermind who plans on eradicating the Hooman Race so that he may rule all creatures from his perch atop my recliner (which I am no longer permitted to use). Until then, we can only try to derail Cat with temporary distractions. Like my milky white calf muscles. Long live Irkutsk! [runs past Cat in short-shorts]