Faith Can Move Mountains... But Dynamite Works Better

Tuesday, November 19, 2019

A Day In The Life Of A Cat

And so it is time for the cat to have her say. Show her the respect she deserves, for she is a supreme being, after all.

7:04 AM. Waking up at home. Taking a big stretch. Slept exceptionally well. Dreamed of the biggest stretch of catnip ever seen by any cat.

7:07 AM. An examination of the exterior from my perch on the back of the couch. More snow has fallen in the night. Flying lunches hanging around the feeders. If I was out there right now, I’d be stalking every last one of you. 

7:11 AM. Waiting on the staff to get down here and see to my breakfast. I do hear her moving around up there, which is a good thing. That means I won’t have to go up there and yell at her to wake up. Of course, waiting on her to finish getting ready for the day is trying enough. Patience, patience. She’ll be down sooner or later.

7:19 AM. The staff finally gets downstairs. It’s about time, staff. I’ve been waiting for you to get down here for a quarter of an hour. Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to wait for that long? Now then, how about seeing to my breakfast? 

7:20 AM. Instructing the staff about how I want my breakfast as she goes into the kitchen. Now then, staff, do pay attention, because I don’t like repeating myself. If you set your alarm clock a half hour early, you could come down here and put a plate in the fridge in advance. Because I like my breakfast plate slightly chilled for optimum dining experience. And I would remind you that while milk and meat is entirely to my satisfaction for breakfast, the same does not apply to the field rations you keep putting down for me too. Are we clear on that?

7:23 AM. The staff has set down a bowl of milk and a plate of tuna for me. For whatever reason she persists in putting down a bowl of field rations too. I set to work on the milk and tuna. I shall ignore the field rations, and perhaps someday she’ll get the message.

7:25 AM. Finished with my breakfast. Heading back into the living room so that my staff can have her breakfast in peace. Because, after all, I am a benevolent higher being.

7:36 AM. The staff is on her way out the door, off to that work place. Well, have a good day, staff. Don’t forget to bring home some milk when you’re on the way home.

7:38 AM. I hear the distant barking of that idiot dog down the road. Someone remind me what the exact purpose of dogs is again, because I can’t figure it out.

8:03 AM. My tail is twitching furiously. I’m on the back of the couch. And a squirrel is on the window ledge outside staring in at me. A pane of glass and two feet of empty space separate us, and the little bastard knows it. Which is why he’s sticking out his tongue at me and giving me the finger. 

8:05 AM. The squirrel appears to presently be laughing and has turned to moon me. This is hardly the sort of behaviour to be engaged in around a superior being like a cat. I take my leave, refusing to give this miscreant an audience.

9:58 AM. Waking up from a nap. A yawn and a stretch. You can never stockpile too many naps, if you ask me, and you are asking me.

10:04 AM. An examination of the kitchen determines that the only food out and about is field rations. See, this is the problem with my staff. If she installed automatic food dispensers instead of leaving field rations around, I wouldn’t be in this situation. Well, I shall just ignore the field rations. For now.

11:17 AM. Watching a flat earther advocate trying to get his point across on CNN. Why isn’t the host putting a stop to this nonsense? Or challenging them? We all know the world is a sphere. If it was flat, the cats would have knocked everything off the edges.

12:02 PM. Coming back into the kitchen. Staring at the bowl of field rations. What to do, what to do…

12:04 PM. After much reluctance, I start eating some of the field rations.

1:28 PM. My peaceful nap is interrupted by the barking of that annoying mutt from down the road. A glance at the clock suggests that it must be time for the mailman to be dropping off the mail. Does it occur to the foul hound that it’s only the guy’s job to do that?

4:10 PM. Watching the Weather Network. They’ve brought back that crazy guy who keeps predicting the end of the world every time there’s a snowfall and has spent one too many times in a mental hospital. Is this general policy over there to hire paranoid lunatics, even if they have the proviso that he’s ‘doing better now’?

4:13 PM. Sure enough the crazy forecaster has gone off on a rant about how ten centimetres of snow overnight is going to result in closures of everything, of mass starvation, of looting the stores and eating the dead, and… oh, there he goes suggesting that if you have to, you can kill someone so that you’ll have a food source. And with that they drag him off the air.

4:14 PM. The other meteorologist apologizes for the behaviour of her colleague and promises he’ll get all the help he needs and will be back soon. Look, all due respect, this is like the twelfth time this guy has suggested we’re in Donner Party scenarios here- when we’re not- and you people still let him on the air after he does a couple of months in St. Waldo’s Home For The Deranged?

5:19 PM. The staff arrives at home. Well, staff, I’ll have you know that you missed seeing the deranged forecaster back on the job for less than fifteen minutes before being dragged off by the producers. So how was your day? And more important, did you bring any milk?

5:46 PM. Observing the staff while she makes dinner. She’s doing some work with stewing beef, which of course I approve of.

6:20 PM. Dinner with the staff. She’s having sprouts with her meat. I don’t know why, I mean, what is the appeal of sprouts? But she’s been good enough to give me a plate of stewing beef, uncooked, of course, just the way I like it. Now if you could be this thoughtful with breakfast, that would be ideal.

7:03 PM. While the staff is doing the dishes, the television is on the news. And it turns out that crazy forecaster just escaped from a place called Belwood. If you ask me, St. Waldo’s Home For The Deranged is a much better name for a mental hospital.

8:48 PM. Lying in the living room, staring up at the ceiling, pondering the great mysteries of existence. When did the purr first come into common usage among the various feline species? 

11:35 PM. The staff is off to bed. Very well, staff, but do keep the door open. I expect to be able to access you at any hour of the night, particularly if I want to walk all over you at four in the morning. Because that’s the sort of thing a cat likes doing.


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