Hi, I’m Punk. I’m the newest kid at Chez Cats here, and I have a few observations to make.
I was sick when I got here. Had a cough that wouldn’t go away, sneezing all the time, kinda hard to breathe. The staff here got me a shot. It hurt, but I started feeling better right away. Then I had to take this nasty white stuff for about a week. They hid it in tuna. Which was kinda manipulative, because, hey, tuna. But you know, here I am, healthy and happy, so all’s well that ends well.
I do sniff my tuna with more suspicion these days, and wouldn’tcha know it, we don’t get tuna nearly so often. The other cats here, they keep asking if I could fake some sniffles or something just so we could have it again, but I really didn’t like the white stuff.
Now, speaking of illnesses, according to the other cats here, the staff didn’t used to work 24/7. One of them, the female, was gone quite a lot, and the male was off at least one day a week. But there’s this thing happening in the human world. They keep talking about a pan full of denim? That sounds tragic to me. Pans are for food. Denim is for scratching. Mix the two up and you’re going to have some confused, angry kitties.
So far I haven’t seen this denim platter served up, so, whatever. The meals continue regular, which is more than I saw in my previous two years of life, let me tell you. Mom abandoned us at an early age, and the people in the trailer under which I was squatting, well, they weren’t forthcoming with tuna. A lot of pasta scraps. If I never eat tomato sauce again in my life, I’m good with that.
This pan of denim, though, I guess it’s got a lot of people rattled. Sometimes the staff here get to talking, and you can tell they’re nervous. That’s when I pull out my full range of charming tricks. You think I survived on pasta leftovers alone? I have a street cuteness routine that will knock your socks off.
So when they start talking scary, I do the ol’ mincing along routine. I can strut, baby, believe me. And after they notice me mincing around their legs, I do the feather boa tail floof. You know the one: tail up, slow rub, entwined so your front meets your back. Sometimes, if I need to pull out all the stops, I give my own tail a tiny wee bite, like I don’t know if I’m coming or going. They love that. Makes ’em laugh every time.
Next we do fur therapy. They reach down and rub, and believe you me I spend a LOT of time to make myself this beautiful. They love my silky long fur, and if I regret their fingers tangling up what it’s taken me hours to get just right, well, do I say anything? I do not. I just head to a corner and set it back in place. You should see the amount of product I run through. Good thing we cats make our own gel.
If they’re still not cheered up, for the piece de resistance, I’ll do the chair jump. I have perfected the art of pretzel sleeping: front half one way, back half another. And while a lady never snores, I do have this little musical routine I do, a kind of puff, puff, puff, puff up the scale, and then crescendo down with a small WHEEEEEE. I can hear them killing themselves laughing in the next room. Sometimes I open one eye to check on ’em. That never fails.
All part of the job. Eventually this denim thing will wear out, and pans will once again be full of tuna. Until then, gotcher back, staffers.