My Roommate’s Kitty

My roommate has a Siamese cat named "Kitty." My roommate has a very vivid imagination when comes to naming his pets.

Kitty used to sleep in the living room next to the big chair... that's in the living room. Now she sleeps on the foot of my bed every night. Kitty is a good kitty—except for when she's a bad kitty and tries to eat my phone's charging cable.

Kitty follows me everywhere I go. Except to work... or the strip club, which I don't go to anyway. Kitty is an older kitty and doesn't bathe herself as much as she used to, which leaves her fur a little bit on the oily side... but not so oily as to replace our dependence on fossil fuels.

She enjoys eating, sleeping, and pooping... just like I do! She's pretty thin, which reminds me. (Note to Self: "Self, the next time you are at the store that sells groceries, remember to pick up nummy cat treats.")

I love Kitty and Kitty loves me... or at least as much as a cat's personality will allow. But alas... I am not Kitty's owner (although as we all know, dogs have owners; cats have staff).

I have been the staff to some very fine felines during my time. There was (I forget her name, dang it!) who was my guard cat when I was a just a newborn mini-person. Only my Mom and Dad would be allowed near my crib as she would fend off all manner of evil-doers and tax collectors.

During my teen years there was "Garfield" (1980s of course), a black and white cat who liked to hide in my guitar case and who also had the strange habit of sitting in front of our door for a couple of minutes, then leaping to the top of the door frame. A few minutes after landing, he would sprawl out on his back with his feet in the air as to throw a temper tantrum because we wouldn't let him outside to do the "Stray Cat Strut."

And my favorite cat of all... "Sam." A real cat's cat, he would gain your trust and/or sucker you in by letting you pet him once... then twice... and on the third pet, just when you started to feel comfortable with him, it was time to attack! Oh, at the feline strategy and ninja-like skills he possessed.

I'd love to be a cat's own again one day. I'd be the assistant to an orange tabby and name him "General Bonkers." He would have his military coat covered in medals and ribbons from doing heroic cat stuff... like eating, sleeping, and pooping... just like I do! I would give him the occasional saucer of half-n-half and a can of primo tuna along with a scuffle to the back of his neck... although I wouldn't rub his belly because as we all know, that's where a cat's murder button is located. He would be a good kitty, just like my roommate’s kitty, "Kitty."

There have been other cats during my life... like "Silver Moon," who I tried to flush down the toilet when I was three. "Shadow," who in bizarre fits of fury would attack her tail until it finally had to be cut off—but she was gentle enough to let you wrap your arm around her as you went to sleep. "Kroker," an old, prehistoric, huge, gray cat that sounded like a frog when he meowed. And of my late Grandma's 11 (yes, 11) cats, "Yoda." She was considered our nurse because if you happened to be sick, she would always curl up next to you with a purr to soothe both your body and soul. I’m uncertain as to if she’d ever watched any Star Wars movies.

Of course, I like dogs too. Growing up with "Blondie" as a kid, and then "Babe" who was a goofy Doberman with a cropped tail, but uncropped ears. And the cutest, smartest, most loving, and annoying yapper of them all, a toy American Eskimo named "Cassie" who passed away just a few months ago. Sure do miss her.

Those mentioned above are now and shall forever be in the Pet Hall of Fame of my heart.

We now resume your regularly scheduled broadcast, Flipper, already in progress.