Cat In An Alphabet Soup (Catnap)

However, my sense of dignity has been sorely tried for the past thirty-some hours. Although I am in solitary, there is not enough room in this cell for a fellow to dip his lips in a water bowl without having his posterior doing a bump and grind over the sanitation facility. Sleep—although who could under a death sentence?—is possible only if I knot my limbs into the kind of position I have not assumed since I was a kitten and did not know better, or was a young tom and did—but did it anyway.

My rear extremity, once my pride and joy, is developing a decided kink, not to mention a basket weave pattern from being pressed against these metal-grid walls. Oh, if I had the wings of a bird—I would eat them.

Certainly it would be tastier than the gray-brown swill that is dolloped into my bowl twice daily. There is not enough of this stuff to keep a mid-size hamster going, but I will not touch it anyway. This may be why I am falsely accused of growling by passing attendants who hear the involuntary complaints of my stomach.

I use every opportunity to figure an angle out of here. At least yesterday some would-be animal adopters were trotted through. These folks are mostly in search of kittens, however. We of an enviable maturity attract the occasional window-shopper, but it seems I am considered a hard case and a bad risk for adoption.

For one thing, they carp about my age, which is none of their business. Secondly, they lament the fact that I have not had a certain distasteful procedure performed upon my person. When I hear of this, I shudder, which encourages the onlookers to conclude that I am suffering from some loathsome disease. In fact, the attention I attract is when an attendant points to me and says “This one sure is big. Ever seen one that big?”

“No, indeed, we have not,” say the happy browsers. “Sure must eat a lot.”

Not for long.

Baker and Taylor get their share of curiosity seekers. Although they have the desired (by some) surgical history, they also suffer from maturity, with funny ears to boot. So I get to keep an eye on them day and night. This is not a pleasant task.

For one thing, they communicate in the most awful mishmash I have ever heard. It makes the caterwaulings of Nostradamus, my Brooklyn-born bookie, sound euphonious. (This euphonious means musical and has something to do with the symphony, I believe.)