It's been a zoo around here. I've witnessed heightened activity. Destruction of paper. Feeding frenzies. Songs about catfrost nipping at your nose. The humans who live with me have been acting like a bunch of kittens that haven't learned how to handle their catnip.
Who I am to sound the alarm? I may be aloof, alluring and attractive, but beyond that, what do I know? I am only the cat.
Walk a day in my paws and you'd understand plenty. The things I see, the secrets I hear, they'd fill volumes if I were able to type at a rate faster than two words per minute. What I lack in opposable thumbs, I make up for in keen observation and (I like to think) witty sarcasm. That, and the aforementioned good looks. (I've been told on more than one occasion that I possess exceptional whiskers.)
The female adult human, the one they call "mom," usually sits at this computer and does the typing. (Calls it a "column" if I'm not mistaken.) As of late she's been wrapped up in the process of hiding boxes under a layer of red and green paper unwound from a tube. This behavior, in and of itself, wouldn't be cause for alarm. Humans waste time doing foolish things (when they could very well be napping) at an alarming frequency.
She spent all those hours arranging the paper, making sure it was smooth and neat; then a couple of nights ago she allowed the rest of the humans to go after each box as though it were the last mouse on earth. They ripped and tore; in the end leaving nothing but shreds.
The female adult? She smiled through the whole process. If I'm not mistaken, she even participated in the destruction.
The situation lacks feline sense. These humans are as capricious and giddy as kittens with a similar sense of logic. If you asked me they could all benefit from a good stretch and a nice long nap purrferably near a radiator or sunny window.
With all the caterwauling going on here, it's clear the mom-human is not going to find time to type at the computer this week. My hypothesis? She is experiencing a sugar-high from overindulgence in maple brownies but you didn't hear that from meow. You might say the cat's got my tongue. (I love it when I am clever.)
Opposable thumbs or not, it's time for me to step in. It wouldn't be cataclysmic or catastrophic if the column wasn't written, but a cat's got to do what a cat's got to do. Besides, I've never been a purrponent of purrcrastination.
Dear reader, it is time to think outside the litter box when it comes to cats and columns. My slow tap-tap-tapping pace at the keyboard (with paws, nose and the occasional feline tail flick) is the best you're going to get this week.
I do have good news. The catmosphere of the household seems to be segueing from chaos to calm. They're no longer ripping paper. They even moved the dead tree outside to the back yard. (I forgot to mention, they brought a dead spruce tree into the house. Can you believe the ferality?)
I've kept the best for last. They saved one small green box for yours truly. They motioned for me to tear into the paper. I was tempted, not to mention curious, but you know what they say about curiosity and cats. I'm guarding my lives all nine of them with the tenacity of a bulldog. I remained aloof, while allowing them to expose the innards of the green box with their own human hands. The scent inside was succulent, luxurious and enticing. They poured some of the dried leaves into a bowl and I've been nipping like a cat at it ever since. Yum!
It's not a purrfect world. But right now, it sure feels that way.
Have I typed enough words for a column? I'm trying to care, but in the end, I remain
Apathetically yours, The Cat.
Jill Pertler, award-winning syndicated columnist and author of "The Do-It-Yourselfer's Guide to Self-Syndication." is collecting fans on Facebook on her Slices of Life page. Email her at firstname.lastname@example.org; or visit her website at marketing-by-design.home.mchsi.com/.