Cat Under The Stars

by thoughtsonthedead

img_3267Hey, cat. Whatcha doing?

“Looking at something.”

That’s it?

“Dude: cat. I am a cat. When cats look at things, they look at things.”


“Lemme ask you: what are you doing right now?”

Writing this, listening to the new Dave’s Pick, checking Twitter, drinking water, scratching my junk.

“Are you doing any of that particularly well?”

Not as such.

“So, who’s the asshole?”

Hey, slow down with the asshole talk, huh?

“Cats are truth-tellers, man.”

Or you’re dicks, whichever.

“You say tomato, I say I’m an obligate carnivore.”

You got a name?

“You can call me whatever you want to call me. It truly does not matter to me.”

Glenda Horowitz?


Orleans Darkwa?



“Well, you know: sure, whatever, but how do you pronounce it?”

I thought it didn’t matter to you.

“It doesn’t.”

Besides, I have no idea: I just hit shift and a number key at random.

“It’s the effort that you put into your little skits that draws the fans.”


“You bought the new Dave’s Pick?”

I have the new Dave’s Pick.

“Thought so. Selland from ’74, right?”


“I can’t be a Deadhead?”

I just didn’t know is all. That’s awesome.

“You didn’t think I could be a Deadhead because I’m black.”

I didn’t think you could be a Deadhead because you are a cat.

“So, you’re racist against blacks and cats?”

You are not black. You are a cat named Glenda Horowitz.

“And we’re adding anti-Semitism to the mix now. Great.”

Are you done?

“Yeah. They leave Seastones on?”

All 14 minutes of it.

“Fuckin’ Lemieux.”