Most Of The Cats On The Street

by thoughtsonthedead

img_3255Who the hell are you?

“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.”

Okay, sure.

“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.”

Jesus, why?

“Because they were birds, so they needed to be murdered; and I’m a cat, so I needed to murder something.”

You’re horrible.

“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?

“I didn’t.”

Thought I’d ask.

“You knew the answer.”