So Charlie the Human has kindly stepped aside today to allow me to blog for myself. It was really nice of him to loan me this forum, especially considering he has so very few regular readers--next to none that I know of. Maybe he thought I could give him a jump start. Kind of sad to be leaning on his pet cat for a popularity boost don't you think?
But I really shouldn't be so hard on him. He's got his flaws, but isn't a bad guy as people go. He's pretty good about keeping my food bowl filled, empties my litter box on a semi-regular basis, and picks up those pesky hairballs up when I cough them up without too much complaint. He's also got a soft lap and mad skills as a chin-scratcher. I could do without the guy forcing me into a pet carrier and driving me to the vet from time to time, but I think his heart's in the right place even there. The truth is I love my humans--Charlie and Maria. Without them, I might still be languishing in a shelter somewhere putting up with annoying kittens and horrible dogs.
But the reason I wanted to guest blog today isn't to prove that a cat can type and write coherent words, or to help my owner improve the popularity of his blog. What I want to do instead is set the record straight. To amuse themselves, my humans have invented this whole mythology about me based on nothing but their imaginations. I don't fully understand why they feel the need to contrive these fictions. Why can't they let a cat just be a cat? The truth is that I'm nothing more and nothing less. Admittedly, I have a few peculiarities. I prefer ice cubes to meat of any sort for example, and I do enjoy running to the door to greet my humans when they come home from work much as a canine might, but these are only personality quirks, and not evidence that I am somehow fundamentally different than the other millions of cats out there.
The humans come up with these stories off the top of their heads and then elaborate on them like they just discovered a new kind of catnip or something. I'm sure as soon as I refute these myths, they'll come up with fresh ones and I'll have to come back in a few months and try to salvage my reputation all over again. I do my best to curl up into a tighter ball in my sleeping place on top of the couch and pretend I don't hear these wild tales at all, but they still get to me sometimes in spite of my best efforts, prompting me to finally speak out today to let the truth be known.
First of all, you might have heard I'm quite the music fan, and that I especially enjoy progressive funk groups like TV on the Radio and Kings of Leon. I have nothing against these musicians and I'm sure they make great music, but the truth is that I have no special affinity for them. I'm greatly annoyed when the humans play their songs for my benefit and make a fuss over how much I'm supposedly enjoying them.
I want to take this opportunity to let the humans know that I am not enjoying it, and would rather snooze the day away than to ever hear a note of it again. In other words, Charlie, My Sex is NOT on Fire for that song. Do you understand me? And no, I don't care about a band full of nerdy looking black guys like TV on the Radio either even though the lead singer of that group does sound like a female in heat when he hits a high note. If you insist on making me listen to music, I'm much more partial to the cacophony of a shaking treat bag.
I also do not especially abhor the Mumord & Sons hit Little Lion Man as the humans claim. It's a catchy enough tune as far as I'm concerned although you have to admit it's a little overplayed and the way the guys in the band dress remind of those annoying air-condition repairmen that showed up at my house uninvited one day. Tried all day for a simple head scratch from one of those characters, and they tried to act like I didn't exist. Didn't care for the cut of their jibs at all. It's no wonder they grew up to have a job with their name on their shirt.
Speaking of names, the humans are also always wondering if I know mine. Of course I understand they refer to me as Oliver James based on a song they like by Fleet Foxes, and I do relate to the appropriateness of the lyrics as they apply to my situation:
Oliver James.
Washed in the Rain.
Nooo loooonger.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=41HarInmUxk
It's a pretty song I must admit. But what the humans don't understand about names is that their name for me is insignificant. Would I expect them to respond if I made up a name for them? Certainly I could make a distinctive cat noise up to represent each of them, but wouldn't I be guilty of a fair amount of arrogance if I started making such noises and expected them to come running whenever I did so? Coming when you're called is fine for dogs I suppose, but it's not for me. I've got a little more pride than that.
The humans have also perpetuated the myth that paints me as a sort of surly, contemptuous, cynical character. They get this idea because of my natural expressions. Sometimes I do look at them with an eye half open or with an are-you-serious smirk on my face, but this has nothing to do with feeling they are somehow clueless, exasperating, disgusting, or just plain stupid. Their interpretations of my expressions are completely false. It's just because I'm a cat, and that's how my face looks. I can't help it. I actually possess quite an angelic character, and am possibly the kindest, most tolerant kitty any of you have ever seen. If the humans were a little brighter and not quite as full of themselves, they would realize as much.
The last misconception I want to clear up is also the most ridiculous. Both of my humans have invented and discussed at great length my fictitious love for alpacas. The truth is that I was not aware that any such animal existed before they began the salacious rumor that I feel a strong sexual attraction for these creatures. Furthermore, they have accused me of being involved in an on again-off again, emotionally destructive relationship with an especially wooly and superficially charming alpaca called Albert. Apparently Albert and I have quite a torrid relationship. We can't live with each other, but simultaneously we can't stand to be apart.
Where did such an abominable idea come from may I ask?? As far as I can tell, alpacas are just goofy looking furry creatures that aren't too far removed from goats. If one ever appeared in my house, I'd crawl right under the bed and refuse to budge until the nasty thing had left.
Well...I say that, but I guess they are pretty cute from the photos the humans have shown me thinking that the mere sight of one would cause me to drool uncontrollably and preen in front of it or something. I'd prefer a glass of ice water and a couple of treats of course, but alpacas have a certain charm I suppose...
It occurs to me as I try to wrap this up before Charlie the computer hog gets too impatient that the reader might see my very ability to write this as proof that I am quite an extraordinary feline in spite of my protests to the contrary. Well maybe I am, and maybe there's quite a story of how I got this way as well. But I'm not telling any of you. A cat without its secrets isn't much of a cat. That's what my mama used to tell me back when we lived on that reservation in South Dakota with that old shaman...but that's already saying too much.
If you want to know how an ordinary cat like me learned to read, write, and express his thoughts so clearly to humans, you'll just have to use your imaginations...kind of like my humans do.
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