Kitten Chronicles: Kitten Logic My pets call themselves “hoomons”. I mark them with traditional feline scarring and ceremonial bloodletting so they know who they are and who they belong to. They make funny noises during these rituals, but I’m told by the Big Orange Cat that it’s normal. Snoozing comfortably in a lap only to get up, jump down, stretch, walk under the chair, jump up on other side of the lap, and go back to snoozing makes perfect sense to me, so I’m not sure why my hoomon thinks it’s a sign to vacate the chair. (And, then she gets all upset when I take up my rightful place on the chair where she has properly warmed it for me. Hoomans are silly.) The male hoomon is in the Evil Box of Wetness with the door cracked, so he totally wants me to push it all the way open and just watch the strange ritual from the safety of the threshold. That thing that has always been on the table for the entirety of my existence doesn’t want to be there anymore. It told me. I helped. Thanks to the male hoomon, magic, bird flesh fell from the sky and onto the floor when he opened the big, cold box while preparing their hoomon food; therefore, it will happen any time the big, cold box is opened. I must be there for that magical event even if it means tripping a hoomon. I don’t know why my hoomon is screaming and jumping up and down. They moved. I killed them. It’s my job. She called them “toes”. I call them dead. She owes me a thank you. And magical-appearing bird flesh. I. MUST. DASH. THROUGH. ALL. THE. ROOMS. If I wasn’t supposed to be up here, then why was I able to climb it? I still don’t understand why the hoomons don’t see that between feedings I’m subsisting off my own body and, therefore, barely alive when they finally feed me. The display of crying and flopping on the floor is not an “act”. I am only seconds from death. They can be very dense sometimes. It crinkles; therefore, it’s mine. Law.
Posted on: Fri, 21 Jun 2013 07:42:33 +0000
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