Cat In An Alphabet Endgame

32

Gilt Trip

Speaking of the Guthrie Theater, my performance is, of course, a major Thespian moment.

Instilling guilt in humans is a delicate, but remarkably easy process.

I have been practicing for this role since a fuzz-bottom. That is how we train these people to perform.

First, one must cultivate a certain Continental ennui.

You suppose yourself French, and world-weary. Your eyelids can barely remain open, your gaze can barely reach for the ceiling, were even a menacing wasp circling.

You think yourself as heavy as you can be, the opposite of what a sane human would do, and your right front mitt and vibrissae, a.k.a. whiskers, may twitch minutely.

Humans sigh, but our breed yawns. Long and deeply. Life is all too empty, cheerless, woeful and not worth living without X-Tasy Bits-brand liver and kidney and a nice Chianti.

What? Your human victim wants to play kissy-face—whisker-crumpling, muzzle-smooching kissy-face? Ugh.

How off-putting. You twist your neck until avoiding all contact makes it plain you are barely managing to put up with this sadly enabling creature who wants only to make you safe, warm, dry, and overweight. And inside.

I hate to do this, but I realize that my journey with my Miss Temple will not be over until we both understand we have our parts to play and our peace to make and will always be together, come rain or shine or bloody murder.

For now, I let her put me down (thank Bast!). What is this obsession with picking up? I came with four on the floor, fully equipped from the factory, and will be leaving the Daily Planet obit pages the same way, many years from hence. I hope.

Meanwhile, as Miss Temple sets me back down with copious sniffles and tears, I plot how to get her where I want her, where it will do me and her the most good.

Mostly her.

Unlike Sam Spade, I am willing to play the sap for a dame.

If it suits me.

But only for so long.