A Day In The Life Of A Cat

And now it is the cat's turn to have her say on all things Olympics on the day of the opening ceremonies.

7:29 AM. Slowly waking up. Dreamed of watching flying lunches on my lawn. Which happens to be a good way to spend some time. Note to self: spend time today on the couch watching those flying lunches peck away at the grass, having no idea that I’m even there.

7:33 AM. Well, staff, there you are. It’s about time. Now, how about you start seeing to making me some breakfast?

7:36 AM. The staff provides me with a bowl of tuna and milk. And for some inexplicable reason, some of those field rations.

7:37 AM. Starting to help myself to some of that tuna. I will leave the field rations entirely alone. I wonder if the staff will finally get the hint in regards to that.

7:49 AM. The staff is on her way out the door for that work place she goes off to. Well, farewell, staff, and don’t let yourself get lost when you come home. I fully expect and insist that you turn up on time so that you can cater to my whims.

7:56 AM. Sitting on the back of the couch, staring outside. I hear the distant barking of that annoying mutt from down the road. What purpose hounds serve in the greater scheme of things puzzles me.

8:03 AM. Watching the flying lunches on my lawn. You’re lucky I’m behind this window. Otherwise it would be a very bad day for you. And a rather delicious one for me, but that’s beside the point, right?

8:19 AM. Staring out onto the back yard. Movement among the woods. Watching carefully.

8:20 AM. That idiot dog is at the property line, looking up at my house. He looks as if he’s wondering whether or not he should come onto my property. For whatever reason, he decides to leave. So much the better. Good riddance to you, dog.

8:46 AM. Channel surfing for a bit. A news anchor is talking with a guest, who says something about it taking three days into the Olympics before the first headless torso bobs up in the water live on television during a rowing competition. The anchor looks baffled. Well, in my experience, anchors these days generally are baffled.

8:49 AM. Turning off the television. I think I’ve heard enough of headless bodies and predictions of mass vomit for one day. Honestly, humans can’t even vomit with dignity. They could take some lessons from cats.

Time for a nap.

11:51 AM. Waking up. Big stretch. Slight yawn. Feeling peckish.

11:53 AM. With much reluctance, I eat some of those field rations.

12:03 PM. Watching the noon news. Lots about that opening ceremony in a few hours. Blather about if Rio is ready or not. Footage of crews desperately finishing last minute details. Questions about what the torch lighting nonsense will be like. Speculation as to how many visitors will come down sick with Zika or something else. Predictions by an “expert” that this will go down as the worst Olympics of all time.

You know, we cats would manage much better than humans at organizing these things, if you ask me, and of course you are asking me.

1:05 PM. Sitting on the couch, musing on what kind of events a cat organized Olympics would have. Scratching posts, jumping from high platforms to other high platforms, marks for best purrs, who can chase the red laser dot the fastest...

4:37 PM. Waking up from my latest nap. A cat can never have too much sleep in a given day, after all.

5:26 PM. The staff comes through the front door. Well, it’s about time, staff. We’ve had discussions of headless corpses and vomit on the television today. Honestly, just what is this world coming to anyway?

5:45 PM. Supervising the staff while she makes dinner. I smell roasting meat. Very good, staff. Have you considered perhaps sautéing it in honey?

6:29 PM. Dinner with the staff. Chunks of roast beef for me. That suits me very well indeed. For whatever reason, she thinks fried tomatoes and sprouts are good additions to the meat. The ways of humans are a puzzling dilemma sometimes, if you ask me, and of course you are asking me.

6:42 PM. Watching the staff while she does the dishes. You know, I’d help, really I would, but I don’t really care to get my paws wet in all that dishwater. It’s a cat thing. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.

7:11 PM. The staff has turned on the Olympics coverage. The anchors are prattling on about the opening ceremony, the last minute preparations, and the reassurances of the local organizing committee that everything is well in hand, and they have no idea whose body was recovered on the beach at Ipanema a half hour ago. 

7:39 PM. With a look at her watch, the staff fumes about how long things actually take for these opening ceremonies to get started. Staff, I will remind you that at the best of times these things are bizarre artistic displays that no one really gets, and which go on for hours and hours. And this is not the best of times, what with headless torsos and vomit and sewage in the waters at these games. I predict disaster and eye rolling and what were we thinking moments aplenty for two weeks running. I stand by what I said: cats should organize this, with gold medals given for best technique at unwinding a ball of yarn.

8:41 PM. So according to those anchors, the Parade of Nations should start anytime now. Which means it could be anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour away.

9:31 PM. And there come the Canadians, smiling and waving. Staff? What is it with whoever designs these things that makes them hate the world so much that they design something so ugly? I mean, honestly. I hope the closing ceremony uniforms look better than this. Well, I’ll say this much for Canadian anchors: at least they know when to shut up and let the images speak for themselves.

11:42 PM. The opening ceremonies are finally finished. The staff thinks it could have gone faster. I am inclined to agree with her. And it would have been far more entertaining if the whole thing had been devised by cats. 

11:51 PM. The staff is off to bed. I will stay down here, staff, and contemplate the notion of running the hundred meter dash up the stairs at four in the morning, followed by an impressive long jump right onto your stomach.