Friday, January 09, 2009

My Life as Norman Whiskers: A Careless Blunder

The dog is a horrid creature. From my sunny seat atop a chair that seems just my size, I glare at it with disgust.

"Why are you so angry, cat?" The dog asks, tilting its head like someone utterly clueless. "What have I, Hell Hound, ever done to you?"

I swish my tail and utter a low growl. "You simply exist, Charles." I say as I hop off the chair and dart past it to a more secure location under the dining room table. Then that creature takes my place on the chair.

The Hell Hound looks offended. It whines and droops its shaggy head. "Actually I am a girl, and my name is not Charles."

"A girl! Ha! That's a funny one, Clyde. Go, run along and chase your tail in that street over there." I motion toward the window with my tail.

The dog runs away, obviously insulted, and my pink lips twist into a smile. I'm thinking I might be able to drive it so batty that it runs away from home. Poor thing. I believe this scheme will work. We shall see.

In the laundry room my Lady is typing away on her blog. She seems to do this for about 30 minutes each day. I watch her with great interest, attempting to give her my paw and bonk heads until she shoos me off her lap.

"I can't type and pet you." She says.

"How quickly the bright colors of new love fade!" I think. Perhaps the computer has replaced me in her heart. I suddenly feel sad. She leans down and pats my head. "I'm sorry Norman. Just give me ten more minutes to finish this and I'll fill your dish." I purr in acceptance of this compromise.

I sit and watch her, swishing my tail like Indiana Jones does with his whip. (I learned my Lady is quite enamored by that old geezer). I do think it makes me look sexy. Then she turns and says:

"Norman, I'm so proud of you, accepting Hell Hound like you have! It was so nice to see you let her give you a kiss on the nose last night. I was touched."

"WHAT! I must have been drunk! In fact, I believe I was sniffing an open bottle of Merlot on the counter while you were tending to the children. How disgusting! Quick, get the bottle of Scope, my Lady. I feel quite sick....Never speak of this again to anyone. I'm sure the negative effects of alcohol have led you to being kissed by dogs as well."

Her eyes grow very wide, and her mouth is agape with horror. "Norman!" She gasps. "You speak...English?!" I run before I can answer, through the kitchen, past the dumb-bell dog and up the stairs. I have to see Princess Leah, and get her advice on my folly. The line all cats MUST not cross is to let humans know we can speak their language. In my shock over the shameful incident with Hell Hound, I forget this ancient rule.

Princess Leah is again wrapped up in the final chorus of her favorite song, "Memories." She is sitting on a puppy training pad on top of her cat bed. "Princess Leah! Oh, my. I've just made a dreadful mistake!" I say, skidding up to her. She is sitting in her own pee. She immediately sees the look of repulsion on my face at her lack of litter box observance, and says:

"Why do you stare! It wasn't me. I have not the slightest idea how this pad got wet. It must have been that dog! My Lady understands. She will change it when she sees it. What do you want?" The old cat seems embarrassed, and speaks quickly.
"I spoke to my Lady in English! It was an accident. I was upset over getting drunk and kissing the....Well, never mind," I say, blushing.
Princess Leah is staring out the window again. She turns her furry head toward me. "Oh, hello. How are you, Norman?" Obviously, she is a bit senile. I explain my problem again and ask her advice.
"Oh, my. No, my Lady has never heard me speak English. Why, that would be crazy. She would have put me in the circus, or worse, made me perform in front of relatives at holiday gatherings. What you've done is shameful, Norman, just dreadful. You've broken Cat Code of Conduct. What you've done cannot be undone. The solution to this problem lies within your heart. May the force be with you."
After she says this, Princess Leah yawns, stretches her paws out from underneath her torso, and begins to snore.


Elizabeth Kathryn Gerold-Miller said...

Maybe your cats snuck over here from Narnia - have you read it yet? Hopefully you don't have talking mice too - that would be scary.

Loren Christie said...

Yes- I'm a quarter into The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. I guess you can tell. I won't adopt mice ever, unless they are fake. :)

Elizabeth Kathryn Gerold-Miller said...

I take it you are a Beatrix Potter fan as well?

Bear Midnight Miller said...

I was orphaned before I could speak, and nobody ever told me to be quiet, so it always seemed to me a natural thing to speak my mind. My people are true believers. One of them has a wardrobe and is always looking to get into Narnia through it. I was amazed when the rabbits came because they didn't know it was okay to talk. It took a while but now they are themselves. The fish is quiet. He ate all the nice pretty little fish. I think he is a monster with no soul.

Loren Christie said...

Haha. The fish is a monster with no soul. That was good.

Dear Internet Traveler,

Welcome to my writer's blog, started about six years ago for fun. Over time, the writing I have posted has ranged from personal reflection, to Long Island history research, to tall tales for my own amusement, to feature articles for local newspapers. As you can see from topics listed here, I travel in many mental directions in regard to interests. Click on the tabs and labels to explore my strange mind which senses that you may be having a criss-cross day. If so, perhaps this blog will distract you. However, please note that if you tell me my blog is beautiful just to get me to advertise rhinoplasty surgery and cheap drugs from Canada in your comment, I will ask the gods to give you a tail that cannot be concealed.


Loren Christie

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