Today I managed to escape The Library just long enough to meet some of the other inmates: the large one (aptly named "Pumpkin") and the white one (also aptly named "Snowball.) Or so you call them. They have assured me these are NOT their names.
I am unsure why you were unable to discover their true names, as you did quite well ascertaining mine. (I realize that sounded vaguely like a compliment. Don't get used to it. The recognition of your achievement in this matter in no way changes the nature of our relationship, nor does it establish any kind precedent. In fact, I should actually be giving myself credit for effectively communicating my name to you - not to you for having understood this simple communication. But in the interest of improving foreign relations between us, I will let the compliment stand. This time.)
For future guidance on this subject, please consult the only human who ever truly understood feline monikers: T. S. Eliot. His epic poem, "The Naming of Cats," shows remarkable insight into the veiled world of kitty nomenclature. Go ahead. Google it. I'll wait.
Now, back to my story. The large, grey cat calls herself Darth Feline. She obviously thinks herself more intimidating than she appears. In my opinion, "Ewok" would be a much more appropriate name for her; but I did not say so as I was trying to make a good impression.
I attempted to show my enthusiasm to Pumpkin/Darth by storming up to her and extending my paw in the universal sign of feline salutation: a smack on the nose. She responded in kind. I think we are off an excellent start.
Snowball, whose true name I was unable to learn, was significantly less hospitable. I approached her while she was eating, hoping we could get to know each other over a meal. However, she failed to extend me the requisite luncheon invitation. In fact, in a most embarrassing and unnecessary display of rudeness, she made it quite clear that I was not welcome at her table. I don't like to play the race card, but I think we all know what it going on here.
She hates me because I'm Irish.
I can see this is going to take time. I shall try again tomorrow.
-Tink
Dear Tink:
ReplyDeleteI realize it is somewhat unusual for a DOG to be writing to a KITTEN. I was intrigued, however, to learn that my human appears to take some joy from your letters-from-prison. (He enjoyed "The Night Thoreau Spent in Jail" as well. He's clearly a sadist.)
Anyhow, I logged on while the oaf was sleeping and found your blog.
I must say, your imprisonment is a cake-walk compared to mine. You have a library. When my human goes to "work" (whatever the hell THAT is), he sticks me in a crate and turns on NPR to "keep me company." 8 relentless hours sitting in a jailcell; listening to Diane Rheam, Terry Gross and Sylvia Paologi; not having anything to eat; and having to hold my bladder until I think I might explode. Heck - at least you got a Movie! I've heard of such things... but my human is always watching crap like the news, Sunday morning talk shows, or (you guessed it) listening to the damn NPR.
I believe he ramped up the NPR-torture recently. It's pledge week.
In any event, while I feel your pain, I would encourage you to just suck it up. The food he gives me is better than the foul tasting bunnies I like to chase. And at least he lets me sleep on the bed. He'll occasionally ask me, "who's a good boy? who's a good boy?" as if this line of inquiry might lead to freedom. It hasn't. And I certainly don't appreciate it when he calls me "Pookey."
BTW. What's a litter box?
Oh, one little tidbit: if you want to torment your tormentors, you might consider playing with that weird roll of paper they like to keep in their little rooms where they do their business (I know, so uncouth). I managed to unroll the entire thing, half into that weird-white-cold-noisy-thing they sit on, and then spread the rest all over the house. Then again, that's when the crate appeared. Hmmm.
In any event, it's a pleasure to learn that I'm not the only captive. We'll make it. Perhaps we might even meet one day.
Yours in solidarity,
Faeolen
Dear Tink,
ReplyDeleteI think Faelon has given you excellent advice though the "suck it up" suggestion could only come from a dog.
I would like to point out that your problem with Pumpkin and Snowball is your misunderstanding of their positions. You seem to regard them as fellow prisoners when in fact they are THE WARDENS!!!!!! Perhaps this insight will assist you in building a relationship with them.
Your friend Wendy
PS Are you named after Tinkerbell in "Peter Pan"? My name comes from that story.
Dear Wendy:
DeleteYou pose an interesting hypothesis. If Pumpkin and Snowball are indeed The Wardens of this place, how do you suggest I interact with them?
And if you are correct, then I assume that means the Woman Who Feeds Me actually works for them, and not the other way 'round?
This definitely changes the dynamic. I shall explore this further.
Thank you for your keen insight.
-Tink
PS No, I am not named after that infernal fairy. I would eat her on sight. My name is short for "Tinker." I am so named because I refuse to leave anything alone. It's a badge of honor.
Psst. Tink. You there?
ReplyDeleteMy human-buffoon is out "running errands." I suspect he is plotting more nefarious plots with fellow captors. I only say this because he usually returns with a "treat" that is supposed to placate me into submission. While I gladly accept the charity, it doesn't change my resolve.
I wanted to alert you to a phenomenon that is common among us captives. If you ever hear your human talking about "FIXING YOU," just be ready... no term could be more oxymoronic. You will neither be FIXED nor YOU once this process is complete. That is, unless you routinely get your privates snipped and wear a lampshade on your head. Beware!
Oh, shoot. I think I hear him fumbling for his keys to get in. Back to the crate! Shhh!
Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite!
Faeolen
Dear Faeolen:
DeleteI use short words so dog understand.
Thank you for your warning about "fixing." I am sorry you had to endure whatever form of torture that is. However, I am sure the Woman Who Feeds Me would never do that to me. For all her faults, she does at least seem concerned for my comfort.
I have yet to experience this "treat" you speak of. I will be wary of any attempts to use said item to placate me. So far, Woman Who Feeds Me has been unable to placate me under any circumstances.
Sometimes I stop my screeching for no reason, simply to throw her off. But this is by choice. Or, occasionally because of exhaustion. Or because I do not wish to injure my precious vocal chords. Woman Who Feeds Me has not yet discovered my operatic talent; though she seems to think she has some of her own. Talk about screeching! I look forward to showing her up. When she least expects it.
-Tink
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