With apologies to ‘We Three Kings’.
We three cats
are asking for food.
Nothing special,
just something to chew.
Kibble, wet food or treats will do-oo;
but not that bread,
noooo, thank you.
Coffee Morning
Got my head out of bed
And my ass across the floor
Staggered through the hall
Hit my face on the door
My eyes were still closed
Couldn’t see where I was
Couldn’t even think
I needed a coffee buzz
Fumbled into the kitchen
The cats almost tripped me
Made it to the counter
And started huntin’ them beans
Found leftover grounds
But that weren’t much
My mind began howlin’
For its caffeine touch
The can was empty
So was the bag
There wasn’t even Sanka
This mornin’ was becomin’ a drag
I sucked on a used filter
To see me through
And licked up the dregs
Left from yesterday’s brew
My heart beat was flailin’
My thinkin’ gave out
And then my legs
And I started floppin’ about
The cats all gathered
But they was no help
The situation was dire
I began to yell
Then my wife came in
And bent down low
And said, “We’re out of coffee
But I guess you know.
“So I went to Starbucks
To get you a cup
‘Cuz I knew without it
You wouldn’t be much.”
I thanked her with tears
And sat up straight
And then drained the grande
And began to feel great
Then the horrible truth struck
‘Cuz my need was laid bare
I needed a second cup
But do I dare?
Tachyon Cat
The cat is domestic only as far as suits its own ends… – Saki (H. H. Munro)
Cats have been referred to as moons, planets and gods since they first deigned to allow humans to see them. I, however, ascribe to the theory of a tachyon cat.
Like the tachyon particle, the tachyon cat is hypothetical. It must exist, because no law or principle prevents its existence.
Tachyon cats display bizarre and contrary behavior. They are there and not there. Look for them and you don’t see them. Call them and there is no response. Yet, suddenly, they’re upon you, gazing and waiting, “Yes?” written on their whiskered expression. “There you are,” you exclaim, rewarding the tachyon cat. “Where were you?”
But they were right there, seen and unseen. Tachyon cats gain energy as they acquire mass, and gain speed as they gain mass and energy. They never travel slower than the speed of light, even at rest, and gain more mass when you try to move them. Their eyes reflect the gaze of distant black holes, which they alone have seen and visited.
When tachyon cats are detected in your presence, it seems like they’re coming and going. Although they can traverse walls without flinching, they like to assert their mastery over humans, so you see them always at the door, asking to be let out, in, out, in, out, in, out, until you’re reduced to puzzling, “Again? But didn’t I just let you out?”
Tachyon cats eat nothing and eat everything. They eat more and less than other cats, and sleep more and less than their feline peers. They play more and less than other cats, and they’re more loving, aloof and cuddly than other cats, while being the same as other cats. They’re a different species than other felines, but they’re the same species.
They’re as dark and mysterious as the dark side of the moon, and as bright and sunny as our star. Some say tachyon cats do not exist, but I know that’s not true. One lives with me, when it suits his desires.
Otherwise, I live with him.
So Proud
Little victories count highly when the days roll on in dull hot and cold repetition, challenging me with tedium and boredom. Being an optimistic, though, I remind myself, at least I’m not under fire, fleeing a wildfire, fighting off zombies, dealing with disease, flooding and pestilence, or enduring anything discomforting.
I, on the computer, at the desk, hot coffee in a mug, cool wind through the screen at my back, was thinking through last night’s strange dream, wherein I was collecting health reports on my mother and faxing them off while helping other relatives handle exuberant dogs. Quinn, my personal feline attendant, completing his morning checklist, was beside me asleep on the desk. Suddenly –
Rising, he jumped down to the floor. Sensing something amiss, I tensed, not breathing, for several seconds.
Quinn began his upchuck routine.
Here’s where procrastination pays.
Leaping into action, I seized yesterday’s paper, which should have already been moved to the recycle but I hadn’t because the Zika virus! And Trump! And Hillary’s emails! And ISIS! And Giant Pearl!
Gently seizing Quinn, I spread the paper in front of him and held him as he brought up a hairball. Now my cat forensics rewarded me, as I knew Quinn does not stop with one. No, moving to one side, he began another. I slid the paper over and held onto him.
Once that was done, I let him go off, folding the paper with its ‘prize’. But Quinn wasn’t finished. A third seemed imminent. Folded paper in hand, I joined him, keeping him in place with gentle hands on either side, talking to him and stroking as I placed the paper beneath his head.
Fini, at last.
And I was so satisfied, so pleased and proud, because my cat had brought up a hairball with his morning meal, and I had intercepted it all, getting nothing on the floor, without either of us becoming freaked. Woo hoo, aren’t I great?
There was no one around to share my joy.
Quinn didn’t care. He moved to the window sill to enjoy the jays pondering the day. I, inspired by my MAJOR ACHIEVEMENT, cleaned the litter box.
Still, it’s a great day, isn’t it? Yes sir, no hairball on the floor. Call the news services. Set up a conference. Issue a press release.
And my coffee is still hot. Ish.
Woo hoo.
Delivery Rules
I know he’s out there. Watching. Waiting, exercising Zen patience. I know the Delivery Rules.
First Rule: inconvenience the customer as significantly as possible.
It’s not about profit and loss or corporate vision and mission statements. It’s about people with power. They have the package. I want the package. So they have the power.
Oh, delicious power, how they love watching me leap up when a truck passes my house. “Is that it?” they mock, imagining my voice, bringing up their super-powerful binoculars to see my disappointment, laughing as they finger a few more drooping French fries into their mouth.
They don’t know that I know the rules. I’m aware of them and their delivery watch. “Keep hidden,” I tell my wife. “Don’t go past any windows.”
“This is ridiculous,” she answers.
“Shhh,” I hiss, pointing up. “They’re listening.”
She stares at me.
I explain, “They’ll know you’re here. We want them to think we’re not home or can’t come to the door.”
Amazement disturbs her gaze. “And why do we care if they know I’m here?”
“Shhh.” I look out the windows. Of course I can’t see a delivery vehicle. They’re not fools. They cloak the van with invisibility so they can stay out there, watching, without being detected, until they believe I’m not home or available and ‘attempt’ delivery. I know how this works.
I move closer to my wife so I can whisper. “They’re out there. They’re waiting for me to leave or take a shower. Then they’ll ring the bell. I won’t hear it so they’ll leave a notice and try again tomorrow. That’s how they get you.”
She stares at me. I don’t know what that look means. “How do I fit into this?” she asks in a Very Normal Tone.
Her refusal to keep her voice down disturbs me. “Quiet,” I hiss. “Come on. What’re you trying to do?” Realizations penetrate my thinking. “They got to you, didn’t they?”
Her eyes widen. “Who?”
But I get it. I understand. “Never mind.” I smile. “I was just joking.” I let slip laughter. “Pretty convincing, wasn’t I?”
She doesn’t seem convinced but I put her behind me and leave the room. Out there, in the living-dining-kitchen great room, I pace and pace, trying to figure out what I can do.
But it doesn’t matter. They have her. They’ve already won the day. Yet, I can’t give up. Not that easily. I’ve been playing the game too long. This isn’t my first delivery. “I’m going to take a shower,” I call, very loudly.
“Okay,” she answers, a mumble.
I go into the master bath and turn on the shower, hoping to fool them, and then slip into the hall to get to the front door to wait. I meet my wife coming down the hall. She looks startled. “I thought you were taking a shower.”
Checking on me. Oh, I get it. I smile. “I am.”
“But you have all your clothes on.”
I nod. “I know.”
Shaking her head, she walks past, saying, “I think you need to relax.”
Relax, oh, they’d like that. Hearing her turn off the water, I run back into the bathroom. “What are you doing?”
“You’re wasting water,” she replies.
Pushing past her, I turn the water back on. She’s talking but I can’t understand her. “What?” I ask. She’s talking again but I still can’t understand her. “What?” I shake my head. “I can’t hear you. You’re talking too low.”
Diversion, I realize, and then the phone rings. The rules require them to ring the doorbell, but if I don’t hear it or answer in time, they leave – and then they won. “Was that the doorbell?” I run for the door and yank it open as my wife answers the phone.
A notice hangs from the door handle. I rush out to see if I spot the truck, a rookie error born from frustration. They already cloaked the truck. Nobody can hear or see it now.
“Did your computer come?” My wife asks from behind me.
I smile without looking back. “No. They left a notice.” I go back in past her, glancing at her face. They got to her. I see it in her brown eyes. I don’t know how. Probably bribed her with a discount coupon for shoes.
“I’m sorry,” she says, closing the door, but there’s no sorrow in her voice.
“That’s okay,” I answer with false cheerfulness. “There’s always tomorrow.”
Yes, there’s always tomorrow, when we’ll play again. I know the rules.
Someday, I’ll win.
Michael Seidel, writer 