If you know me (and if you're reading this, you either do or you are desperate to kill time at work), you've probably gotten the impression that I hate cats. Yes, I shout, "Scat you bitches!" whenever one of my houses cats crosses my path, and yes, I have on occasion looked for a large bucket when awoken by incessant mewling, but I like cats. Really. It's just that their short life span offers an accelerated glimpse of my own inevitable slide into responsibility.
This is one of the cats on my family's farm:
Here you see a young Olive, youthful and vigorous; eagerly awaiting each new day and the dangling bits of string it may bring.
This is the same cat, one year later:
Sweet Jesus. There's nothing left to look forward to for Olive now. The pressures of having to go out and find meaningful work, maintain a civil relationship with her girlfriend, and not get caught outside of the garage when the temperature drops below freezing have sucked the fun and exuberance right out of this cat. Not to mention that the cat just can't eat chicken nuggets dipped in mayonnaise anymore and expect to fit into a box. Yes, in just a short span of time, this dumb animal has gone from a wild and care-free spirit to a depressing lout, who would like nothing better after a long day of sitting still than to stare mindlessly at the television. Which may or may not look like fuzz, I can't really remember if cats can decipher those images. But whatever the case may be, rest assured that the salad years have passed poor Olive by. Olive is done shaking the world, or at least the bits of string that are attached to it.
So no, I do not hate cats. I hate only to be reminded of how far they have fallen from their idyllic youth; forced by time and biology to become layabouts as the world passes them by.
Next week: Is the rabbit an alcoholic?