by Bob Miller
(Plymouth, MI, USA)
My name is Tony Soprano.
No. Not that Tony Soprano.
Tony is a human word they use for me. I think it means “big poop”. I hear that a lot anyway. They seem to take a peculiar interest in my business every day.
I’m a cat.
I have one sister, Maggie. We get by with a staff of two who we tolerate, because good help is hard to find these days. For now, they will have to do. They have been trained in chin scratches and belly rubs, and if I’m being honest, I’ve got a soft spot for groveling humans.
My day starts like most.
Around dawn I awake and expect breakfast to be served. All that sleep makes for a big appetite. Second helpings are always expected, but lately the staff seems to ignore my needs. Anyway, after breakfast it’s time for a nap.
The staff says I’m overweight. They should talk. I’m only 25 pounds and I think I look pretty good for a 10 year old. The stuff I have to put up with.
It’s not easy being a black cat.
I have to put up with very odd behavior from the humans. Just today there was another episode as the helper was wrestling with a tree. It had a giant tail that went into the wall. The noise was enough to cause me to just seek peace in another room. The thing drags the helper all over the house and seems to go on for hours.
As if that’s not bad enough, I have to spend time trying to figure out where they left my belongings. It’s not as if this only happens once in a while. It’s getting to be habitual. Enough already with the wrestling matches.
Mid mornings bring some peace.
The humans seem to disappear during the day. I have no idea why nor where they go, but it gives me time for my mid-morning nap. They always forget to turn of the television. I guess they think I enjoy watching CNN. Ten years of CNN and not one lousy story that I might enjoy. Good thing I am proficient at sleeping.
My thoughts begin to think about food; nothing but an empty dish. The staff is slipping.
Afternoons take their toll on me.
It’s always one thing or another. No food. My sister wants to pick a fight. She’s a runt and thinks I can’t move as fast. Oh, I can move fast. There are these things called treats. Want to see how fast I can move? Just say the word treat and the speed contest is over. Besides, she only has to carry around 10 pounds.
That reminds me.
I need to poop again before the staff gets home. Exit stage left.
Evenings are good news and bad news.
The good news is that dinner is served. The bad news is that dinner will inevitably come to an end. Sometimes I don’t get served at a reasonable time and have to take matters to a level even the staff can understand. I slam the cabinet doors. Bang! Bang! They may have hearing issues, but they get the message.
As if all this isn’t bad enough, they almost never remember the dessert. Honestly, you would think a treat is made from 24 carat gold. It’s a treat people!
Then the staff plops down thinking their shift is over.
They must think I love watching news. CNN all day. At night it’s NBC. Then, back to CNN. Finally, they think I like Rachel Maddow. These creatures find interest in the strangest things.
Don’t they know they get to live with royalty?
My name is Tony Soprano.
I am a saint for putting up with a staff in the twilight off their mediocre career.