Editor’s Note: In the interests of fairness and civil discourse, we have allowed our cat Scooter Thomas a forum to rebut what he calls the “innuendo and scuttlebutt” which “have so far maked this insidious little blog of yours.”
What do these eight images have in common? Answer: They all uphold — indeed, fortify — the malicious and unfounded notion that all the feline species is good for is: 1) eating; 2) being fat; 3) exuding an air of smug condescension; 4) enaging in slovenly behavior; and 5) aiding and abetting the most evil regimes on the face of the earth.
I cannot tell you how sickening I find these stereotypes. The fact they are all cartoons only reinforces just how cartoonish this vile canard of the shiftless, dim-witted feline archetype is. Furthermore, what saddens me most is that my two owners — otherwise good people, on the whole — have subscribed to this notion with such an ideological frenzy that I am forced to sacrifice good, valuable nap time to refute it. Also, due to my girth, my paws are a bit larger than most of the keys, so I am forced to constantly backtrack and delete. But such is my cross to bear.
First (and, if I may say, most damning of all): The so-called picture of me which appears on the “About” page of this blog is in fact not me. I fear it says something about the intellectual merits of most of my owners’ friends that they have bought into this misconception so completely, when it says on that very page that the cat pictured is not actually me. I will not waste the time and space to address this despicable photograph any further except to add that I would never be caught dead drinking Bud Light. I am a Zima man through and through.
Second: This business about me being a deadbeat is more outlandish rumor. If I were not here to help run this household, I sometimes wonder how my owners would even dress themselves in the morning (particularly the boorish male one). Let us count the ways I contribute to the smooth execution of household obligations:
- I am on constant alert for the presence of that insidious red pen light.
- I promptly lick excess water off the bathroom floor when my owners step out of the shower.
- I am a sturdy back-up alarm, sitting on the heads of my owners when they have hit snooze one too many times. (Again, the loutish male is a chronic oversleeper.)
- I ensure the area below the bed is secure and protected whenever there is a break-in.
- I ensure the area below the bed is secure and protected whenever there is a thunderstorm.
- I ensure the area below the bed is secure and protected whenever the doorbell rings.
- I assist gravity in its formidable task whenever my owners leave their luggage lying around.
- Who else is going to use that perfectly good litterbox?
Finally, may I speak openly about just how freeing it is to be totally at peace with my body image? Unburdened by glossy magazine photographs and nefarious advertisements telling me I should be in a perpetual state of dissatisfaction about my looks, I love every pound on my body, all eighteen of them, especially my lower paunch and the mudflaps that form behind my rear legs whenever I sit down.
I should hope this would settle my little disagreement with the powers that be in this household once and for all, yet I fear you may be hearing from me again.
And now if you’ll excuse me, I hear the couch, a bottle of pinot noir and James Lipton calling my name.