Tag: Cat

Conversation with my cat

GOD AND THE CAT GOD

I tape record this with no regrets

My cat has grown weary of my threats

In the weeks since the death of my wife

To take a shotgun and end my life.

Just do it, he says, you’ve got eight more.

Are you nuts! I have one, no encore.

Are you telling me, says this feline,

That the Cat God gave us creatures nine

And your God grants y’all a measly one.

Bet your ass, I say, feeling undone.

Well, well, well, the cat says with a smirk

That must drive you biped dudes berserk,

Humanity’s fate is woebegone

Just one lousy life, the cat goes on

And yet a turtle, say, has no fears

He can crawl and crawl a hundred years,

And you can’t even kill a cockroach!

I am aware I begin to broach.

But then the cat turns to creation:

You believe in reincarnation?

I don’t know, why do you ask me that?

Believe, dude, and come back as a cat.

It’s not up to me you mad crackpot!

Screw it, says the cat, give it a shot,

I’ll personally contact the Cat God

And put in a good word, you ol’ sod.

Go ahead, the cat adds, grab the gun—

Hey, fill my food dish before you’re done.

So I fill the cat’s dish and go backstage

Plug in a shell and grab the 12-gauge—

[Tape abruptly ends]

Of cats and the dead

I don’t get out much anymore. I stay inside with the cat. I myself am turning into a cat. I eat like the cat — cold salmon on a small plate; I sleep like the cat — frequently, and in various chairs. There is one major difference between us — she can’t type, therefore wastes no time at it.

The cat looks out the Miami Beach window at the blinding white sky. Pelicans fly in formation — nature’s own squadron, one bird taking the lead, ten others fanned out behind him. Here’s another difference between the cat and I — I know that far-away objects are bigger than they appear; the cat thinks the pelicans are about the size of budgerigars.

I’m running out of time if I intend to write my magnum opus, that one book that will justify my lousy life. The age-old question is: Where to begin? Don’t give me that “at the beginning” routine. I hate stories that start: My earliest memory is when I was four, standing on the running board of my father’s old Ford, blah blah blah.

One should start at the end, if one only knew the end. Well, the end is death, of course, but we need to know the circumstances, the morbid details, the cause, the how and the why and the where — and most chillingly, the when.

If we all knew when, we’d live our lives a lot differently. Either that or we’d blow our brains out now and be done with it. A lot of people hate waiting. They’re impatient. And they especially hate waiting for a corned beef on rye with too much pain on it; or waiting for a lousy bowl of oblivion. The hell with it.

I know a lot of dead people. I don’t call them anymore. I used to dial A for Afterlife. Never an answer. Talking into a dead phone. I dialed O for Oblivion. Busy signal. Lines all tied up.

I shared this fact with the cat. She listened intently but I knew she wasn’t interested. She was thinking of a crunchy pelican the size of a budgerigar.