Cat Chat

“He that fears every grass must not piss in a meadow,” my Cat told me as he chewed contentedly on my slipper.

“Is that what you have been doing?” I asked suspiciously.

“It’s just an ancient proverb that my grandmother taught me,” he said, “this slipper is good, where have you kept the other one?”

“When will you stop snacking on my slippers?” I asked in disgust.

“Let me eat them first,” the Cat said contently.

“Why don’t you go after the mice?” I asked indignantly.

“I did, but they got a stay order from PETA,” he said.

“They did?” I asked, “then you can approach the International Court of Justice!”

“Too far away and I don’t have a passport,” the Cat said continuing to tear the slipper with his teeth and claws.

“You can always stow away, can’t you?” I questioned sarcastically.

“The Court does not entertain illegal immigrants,” he sighed.

“If you are going to eat my slippers, what is the point of getting cat food?” I asked annoyed.

“Variety is the spice of life,” he said glibly.

“Your grandmother taught you that too?” I asked.

“She also taught me to spice up my life,” the Cat said.

“And, how do you do that?” I asked.

“Oh, I get all my spices from the kitchen,” he said polishing his whiskers.

“Then I am going to ask the cook to lock the kitchen,” I said emphatically.

“I already have a duplicate key,” the Cat said smugly.

“I did not know that you were so shifty,” I remarked.

 “Forewarned is forearmed,” he said smirking.

“If you are forewarned then why don’t you predict the weather?” I asked exasperatedly.

“So that you can take a walk in the meadow?” the Cat asked.

“I will certainly do nothing of the sort, not after what you told me you do there,” I said reproachfully.

“I do nothing there save what you do in the bathroom,” he drawled.

“Have you been peeping?” I asked scandalised.

“Of course, I’m a Peeping Tom,” he replied saucily.

“I did not know you did that in your spare time,” I said morosely.

“Time hangs heavy after the mice got a stay order from PETA,” he said with a twitch of his tail.

“You can order some Mus Musculus on the black market then,” I suggested.

“Is that a special variety?” he asked narrowing his eyes.

“No, just what the scientists call the mice,” I explained.

“When they go to the meadow to look for mice?” the Cat asked.

“No, they don’t go themselves, they ask their Cats to do the looking,” I explained.

“Can I apply?” the Cat asked brightly.

“What will I do if you are away?” I asked.

“The mice will play when the Cat is away,” he said thoughtfully.

“You will have to find a solution,” I replied.

“Are mice soluble in water?” he questioned.

“That’s not a solution for getting rid of the mice!” I exclaimed.

“You could ask the Pied Piper,” the Cat said.

“I shook my head. “He doesn’t travel beyond Hamelin.”

“You could double his fees and give him a nice flute,” he suggested.

“He does not play the flute anymore, he likes the trumpet now,” I said shaking my head.

“You mean he blows his own trumpet?” the Cat asked.

“Yes he has plenty of lung power and horse power,” I replied.

“He keeps horses too?” the Cat asked surprised.

“He does, he rides around when he gets tired of walking and playing his own trumpet,” I said, “and that is how he got a foot in the mouth disease.”

“What cured him?” he asked.

“Cured ham,” I replied.

“Is it good to eat?” he asked me.

“Very good taste,” I said licking my lips.

“Then you can get me some for breakfast,” the Cat said.

“But I thought you liked sardines for breakfast!” I exclaimed.

“I am not interested in small fry anymore,” he said haughtily.

“You are interested in the big fish then? I asked.

“Also the fish that the Pied Piper ate,” he said smoothing his whiskers.

“I’m not sure that he ate fish,” I replied.

“Then you can get me cured ham and roast lamb,” he said.

“Your appetite is growing day by day,” I remarked sarcastically.

“It also grows at night,” the Cat said slyly.

“When you dream of mice?”

“Who wants Mus Musculus when I can order something nice,” he said.

“As long as it’s not a tall order,” I said.

“My menu is made to order,” the Cat said smugly,” and is only two feet high.”

“You must not overeat, you must watch your figure,” I cautioned.

“Just because you have a figure like a lamp post, does not mean that I need to watch my figure,” he said rudely.

“You will soon look like a figure of eight,” I predicted, “if you continue to stuff yourself like a pig.”

“Why don’t you keep a pig too?” the Cat asked me.

“Shall I order one online?”

“Yes the one that has wings,” he said enthusiastically.

“They don’t make them anymore,” I informed him.

“Then get some sausages,” he said, “I like them with mashed potatoes.”

“Would you like some ice cream too for dessert?” I asked sarcastically.

“Thanks, two ice creams would be nice,” he said with a deep purr, “and don’t forget the cake.”

“You can’t have the cake and eat it too,” I replied annoyed.

“Give me three large slices and you can have a small piece yourself since you are on a diet,” the Cat said.

“I am not on a diet,” I said.

“But I saw you drinking Diet Coke,” he said innocently.

“It’s you who needs to diet,” I remarked.

“Ham and eggs for breakfast, chicken for lunch and roast duck for dinner will do nicely when I’m on a diet,” the Cat said.

I began pulling out my hair by the roots and gave a howl or two.

“Are you suffering from gas again? I told you not to eat that pizza alone,” the Cat rebuked me.

“No, I think I will take to drink!” I said pulling out some more hair.

 “Why don’t you stick straws in your hair instead?” he asked.

“I don’t clutch at straws,” I said, “and I’m not going to go bankrupt just because you are dieting.”

 “Then how about getting me a chocolate?” he asked sticking out his little pink tongue, “it makes me drool!”

“You will get worms in the stomach if you have so many chocolates,” I said warningly.

“You can spray some weed killer on my stomach then,” he suggested.

“Do you want to be spray painted or tattooed on your stomach for the worms?” I asked.

“Don’t waste money on tattoos,” he said,” it’s out of fashion, just let me have an ice cream.”

“You want an ice cream do you?” I asked exasperatedly.

“Just one, but of course you can give me two if you want,” the Cat replied.

“What if I box your ears?” I asked.

“Do you want to be bitten?” the Cat questioned, “I haven’t bitten anyone since the postman last month.”

“I hate it when you say you want a bite,” I replied.

“I only bite what I can chew,” he said simply.

“Like my slippers?” I asked.

“It prevents me from getting bored,” the Cat said blithely.

“Bored as a blind guy watching a silent movie?” I asked.

“Where did you get that from?” my Cat asked me in awe.

“Oh, I read a bit,” I replied, “and sometimes between the lines.”

“Is that’s why you count sheep on your fingers and toes before you fall asleep?” he questioned.

“You see the sheep have insomnia, and that’s why I have to count them so that they don’t wander off,” I replied.

“Do they suffer from wanderlust?” asked the Cat curiously.

“Yes, but they don’t have Google Maps built in, so they sneak across the hedge when no one is looking and usually land up in my dreams,” I explained.

“It must make you feel sheepish!” the Cat chuckled.

“Yes, when I have nightmares,” I said sadly.

“Oh!”

“I begin counting then I run out of fingers and I have to start all over again, it's a regular feature during Monday’s nightmare,” I replied.

“You must see a psychiatrist,” the Cat said concerned.

“I saw one and he cured me,” I said.

“What did he tell you except about the Freudian slip?” the Cat asked.

“He said that I should look into the mirror and recite ‘mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the dumbest of them all’,” I replied.

“That cured you?”

“It cured me, I never cross a bridge without Google Maps now,” I said, “while I wear a parachute when climbing down.”

“What was the highest bridge that you ever crossed,” asked the Cat interestedly.

“I can’t remember offhand, but the Grand Canyon was annoyed with me so were the Himalayas.”

“You do travel the world,” the Cat remarked admiringly.

“I always read an atlas before going to bed and count sheep,” I confessed.

“I count mice, they all have numbers on them so I don’t have to count them,” the Cat replied.

“You don’t count aloud when you eat sausages,” I pointed out.

“I don’t because you always give me a dozen.”

“The vet told me not to give you more than a couple now,” I said.

“Tell the vet to go on a diet if he needs to and not ruin my constitution by prescribing bread and water,” the Cat snapped.

“It’s all for your own good,” I tried to reason with him.

“Did he say anything about veal?” the Cat asked.

“No, he didn’t,” I replied.

“Then you can get some for me,” he said snootily pausing to rub his whiskers with his paws.

“I don’t know if the cook can prepare venison, she can only cook burnt offerings,” I said unhappily.

“You can get a new cook who can sing and dance for me and play the piano while cooking veal for me and a little bit for you,” the Cat said.

“What about Micheal Jackson?” I asked.

“He can sing and dance, but I don’t think he can cook.”

“Why don’t you ask him?” I asked hopefully.

“I can’t because he has handed in his dinner pail,” the Cat said.

“What about Angelina Jolie?” I asked.

“Brad Pitt might cook up a storm,” he said.

“Then he cooks, doesn’t he? Ask him to join on the first of next month and I will ask him what specialities he can whip up,” I said excitedly.

“But he lives in Hollywood, it’s too far away,” the Cat sighed.

“So we are going to starve, is it?” I asked.

“You can starve if you want to and look like a lamp post, but I am not giving up veal,” he said with a toss of his furry head.

 “I have an idea, why don’t we stand under the lamp post and beg?” I asked, “There are kind people around.”

“No point,” the Cat pointed out, “you would be mistaken for a lamp post too.”

“I can’t help it if I look like a pole, and I don't even have Polish blood,” I retorted.

“Beggars can’t be choosers, we are only looking for cooks,” the Cat said.

“But what if too many cooks apply they could spoil the broth,” I pointed out.

“I’m not having broth cooked by some hag, you can get me a nurse instead,” the Cat said.

“If you need a nurse, I need one too,” I said hotly, “I’m not as young as I use to be and need some serious nursing.”

“All right you can get me a nanny and you can take the nurse,” the Cat conceded.

I extended my hand and him his paw. “That’s a deal,” we said shaking.

“I would like the nurse to have long legs, it will help her travel long distances quickly,” I explained.

“And will my nanny tell me bedtime stories about you and the nurse?” the Cat asked precociously.

“She shall tell you nothing of the sort,” I said poking him in the chest.

“Are you going to poke the nurse too?” he asked innocently.

“Only if we play poker,” I said easily.

“What about strip poker?” the Cat insisted.

“That’s tempting thought,” I said, “but I will have to read up laws relevant to unaccompanied females.”

“Why don’t you ask her to bring the law books herself, so you won’t have to go out,” the Cat said.

“The only problem will be if she throws the book at me,” I remarked.

“You can tell her that you are not qualified for mud wrestling and hate getting mud on the carpet,” the Cat said, “The cook can be the referee in that case.”

“No wrestling with nurses, even if she insists on giving me an enema every hour,” I said firmly.

“Aw, you’re a spoilsport, the cook and I could have placed bets while you wrestled,” the Cat said.

“I’d rather buy her Eau de Cologne,” I said, “it will soothe my headaches.”

“You mean the wrestling will give you a sore head?” the Cat asked.

“It will certainly bring matters to a head if I take your advice and wrestle with the nurse,” I said.

“You can take a walk with her in the meadow too,” he said.

“Not there?” I said shaking my head vigorously, “Your grandma told you to do certain things there that I don’t approve.”

“There’s grass there, it will help your digestion if you chew the cud, ask any cow,” the Cat said.

“I’m not going to have bovine conversations with cows or to chew the cud or launch a Scud missile up the nurse’s skirt,” I said determinedly.

“You meant shirt didn’t you, then it must be a Freudian slip,” the Cat pointed out, “Or were you referring to the nurse’s slip, that’s Freudian too, did Freud sell women’s innerwear too?”

“He could have but he did not need to as his books and practice were doing well,” I said.

“Did he write for women’s magazines too?” the Cat asked curiously.

“Yes possibly and also supported women’s lib because he liked burning bras at midnight,” I replied.

“And maybe slips too, possibly that is the origin of the Freudian slip,” the Cat remarked, “Was he a pyromaniac too?”

“I don’t know, but he treated melancholia hypochondriaca, stuporous melancholia and flatulous melancholia,” I said.  

“Did he treat gas?” the Cat asked, “I could consult him, the gas in the kitchen leaks sometimes.”

“By all means do, but he is busy curing the nurse’s homicidal mania wearing a see through Freudian slip and ensuring that she does not get hydrophobia, rabies and delirium tremens before she hits the night spots during night duty at the mental ward,” I said.

“I will ask him to fix the gas leak in the kitchen when he is free then,” the Cat said and left for the meadow.