Call me Ernie. I’m a rescue cat. No, I don’t have Hemingway thumbs. I have Hemingway attitude. You can practice homage to Catalonia on me. I was made to be adored.

I used to live outside, run across the river and into the trees. The hills, man, they were like white elephants. Then somebody picked me up and dumped me at the shelter. It looked like death in the afternoon, then this chick got me and took me from the shelter straight to the vet. To have or have not, I am still confident in my manhood.

I’m looking for a forever home. Right now I’m in a bachelor pad called a foster home. It’s a clean, well-lighted place and I can stay here as long as I want. But I’m waiting for my garden of Eden.

a farewell to arms

I like to be cuddled. I love to be fed. A movable feast suits me just fine. I’m a solid kind of guy. Dames worship me. Dogs fear me. Other cats think I’m cool. They want to be me. The sun also rises but not as big and bright as me.

I like a drink now and then, but what I really like is to play with my water dish. I make the torrents of spring with my splashes. Pretend I’m an old cat on the sea. Chicks think sailors are sexy. Hey baby, wanna play islands in the stream?

Naps are good. 14 hours a day is right. The other 10 I spend playing. Ask not for whom the jingle bell rolls; it rolls for me.

So c’mon down to the bookstore, if you’re a big two-hearted giver, and I promise not to give you a dangerous summer. Really, I’m a pussy-cat once you get to know me.

Don’t take that the wrong way.