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A cat     

Posted by Katherine Putnam on November 16th, 2011

“Everybody wants to be a cat, because the cat’s the only cat who knows where it’s at…”

This past weekend was a weekend full of cats. We had a smashing visit with the Palmers and their kitties (watching MST3K and the Riff of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, and playing a BSG board game). Two of their felines were initially very shy…but we won them over (and were then very tempted to kidnap them)! Then on Sunday we got to meet Lisa’s newly adopted, four month old, black furred little kitty-cat. Such a cute little scamp. Can’t wait to see him again in a few days (and Lisa too, of course).

Lisa has been keeping me up to date on the cute things her kitten is doing, including his ever increasing curiosity towards the shower. He has not gotten brave enough to hop in yet, but he has taken to observing Lisa from between the two shower curtains. Inspired by that story/our email conversation surrounding it, I decided to pen my own version of Prince Hamlet’s “to be, or not to be” speech. I present, for your viewing pleasure, a line for line transformation of ol’ Hammie’s soliloquy, from a cat’s perspective:

To get wet, or not to get wet: that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler to the furred to groom oneself
Or suffer the damp indignity of a human’s shower,
And by conceding, smell pretty? To bathe: to shower;
No more; and by a shower to say we end
The dirt and thousand tiny knots
That fur is heir to, ‘tis an immaculateness
Devoutly to be wish’d. To bathe, to shower;
To shower: perchance to get wet: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that aquatic stall what a deluge may come
When we have abandoned our feline wisdom,
Must stay our paws: there’s the flood
That makes a mockery of our purrfect dignity;
For who would stand the soap and suds of man,
The oppressor’s loofah, the two-legger’s shampoo,
The slime of shower scum, the towel’s delay,
The insolence of rubber ducky’s and the spurns,
The pandering photos the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his ablutions make
With a rough tongue? Who would adjustable showerheads bear,
To hiss and swerve under hard water,
But that the dread of reeking like a dog,
The uncouth cousin from whose stench
No one escapes, threatens our fastidiousness
And makes us rather bear those purifications available
Than lower ourselves to doggish malodor that we smell too oft?
Thus propriety does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native impulse of self cleansing
Is overthrown by the putrid memory of dog,
And enterprises of great tradition and independence
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. – Soft you now!
The fair Miss Whiskerton! Coquette, in thy nares
Be all my scents remember’d.

Le sigh. I’m such a dork. Also, my apologies to Shakespeare.

Cheers,

Katherine Elyse


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