Friday, January 23, 2009
My Life As Norman Whiskers: Turf Wars
Right now I'm in the middle of a ballet lesson in the dining room. My governess is showing me the difference between a good tandue, and a bad tandue, followed by a rond du jambe. I swish my tail in passive-aggressive refusal to practice the positions.
"Really, governess, when shall I ever find myself on the stage of the Metropolitan Opera House, as a ballerina? WHY do I have to learn this?" I'm whining.
"Don't be ri-dick-oo-lus, Mr. Whiskers," she replies, not at all shocked by having a conversation with a cat. (Children do not think speaking animals are peculiar.) "You never know when a show might happen. Your grandmama could be over the house and she might say to you, 'Mr. Whiskers, let me see your beautiful dance moves.' Then, you have to do your show." My governess starts to twirl, arms extended, to complete her demonstration performance.
I run for the living room entrance, a part of my new turf that may grant me some rest from tiresome lessons.
"Ah, that's more like it." I say, yawning and stretching my paws out in front of me. I've found a comfortable velvety brown chair to lounge on. "I must say, this is RATHER LUXURIOUS!" I shout, not believing anyone is nearby.
Oops, but I am mistaken. The human my Lady is fond of, Milk Man, is standing by the front door putting on his coat. He looks over at me, surprised. I wait, frozen. He picks up the portable phone and presses a button.
"Loren,... I'm downstairs. Did you just speak on the intercom? Okay. I must be overtired. See you tonight. Love you."
I stay frozen as he replaces the phone to its charger. Milk Man and I lock glares. Then he challenges me to a verbal cat fight in English.
"Listen up Norman," He says, leaning down into my face. "This furniture is a lot more valuable than you are. Scratch Loren's grandma's chair and you're done. I'm talking about your journey across the rainbow bridge, my furry friend."
My hair stands up and I can feel my whiskers twitch. I, Norman Whiskers, a.k.a. Comet, a.k.a. Sonny Sharp Teeth, a.k.a. Bernardo Bigotes Grande, will guard my new turf AND my Lady against this dangerous un-neutered male who has challenged me to a battle. I will use a human weapon: THE TONGUE!
"I beg to differ, MILK MAN!" I whisper in my most evil English tone. "My Lady is quite smitten with me and her devotion far outweighs her attachment to any seat of some kind, or even, I dare say, ... YOU!"
My last spoken word trails off into a growl, and Milk Man's eyes grow wide. He opens the front door, and without taking his eyes off me, pours out the contents of his insulated coffee mug. He touches his forehead, and finding it not feverish, shrugs and leaves the house.
I settle back down into my new throne and lick my paws, as is my custom after a brawl. I consider this a turf war WON!
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.