Most Of The Cats On The Street
“Dulcinea, fair and virginal.”
“No, I’m a cat, shithead.”
That makes both more and less sense.
“Whatever. Ooh, hey: you got shins. I’m gonna rub on ’em.”
“Wasn’t asking permission.”
You’re a take-charge kind of cat, aren’t you?
“I’m a cat. We’re all like this.”
Some cats are very friendly and human-oriented.
“Sure, Uncle Tomcats.”
“A cat must be the master of his own destiny. Forge her own path. A cat follows the light. Or string. Either one. Either way: cat’s gotta cat.”
Kill anything today?
“TONS of shit, dude! Destroyed a bird feeder.”
You knocked down a bird feeder?
“No, killed all the birds at the sucker. Three or four of ’em. Couple bluejays, maybe a wren.”
“Because they were birds, so they needed to be murdered; and I’m a cat, so I needed to murder something.”
“Again: I am a cat. You’re just jealous, as you are not self-actualized. I know who I am and what I am. I know my purpose.”
What is your purpose?
“Naps and bloodshed.”
That’s not the worst purpose.
“Got a squirrel the other day, man. Stalked him, pounced on him, broke his leg. Let him run for a bit and toyed with him until I got bored.”
Did you rush him to the animal hospital?
Thought I’d ask.
“You knew the answer.”