Yesterday, I awoke from my late afternoon nap when I smelled G. gallus domesticus. Now, mind you this was not just ordinary G. gallus domesticus, but the preferred Foster Farms G. gallus domesticus. Before I launch into the crisis at hand, I must digress for a moment and share some thoughts.
The Lady has become friends with her former Union rep, Roger. Like The Lady, he is a humankind foodie who is also a former chef. He and The Lady love to discuss cooking.
One day Roger told The Lady he was headed to Longview to Foster Farms. The Lady asked him what happened to the G. gallus domesticus who refused to organize…according to Roger, they end up in the frying pan and that is precisely what woke me up from my nap…unorganized G. gallus domesticus sautéing in the kitchen. I understand that the G. gallus domesticus from Arkansas are much easier to organize due to a diet of pepperoni pizza and other junk food plus the addition of a lot of unnatural crap. At least according to Foster Farms commercials, that’s what they eat.
Speaking of commercials, The Lady loves those silly Trunk Monkey commercials from Suburban Motor group. Her cousin, Dan, knows of this love and has given The Lady her very own Trunk Money (stuffed and hanging off my desk swag lamp) and a Trunk Monkey T-Shirt. BTW, I’ve seen those commercials and that is no monkey (trunk or otherwise), it is a Pan troglodytes…whatever happened to “truth in advertising?”
Here’s a bit of trivia…did you know that Pam troglodytes laugh? I kid you not…just like the humankinds, they recognize ridiculous predicaments and enjoy the irony. You can also get a young Pan troglodyte to laugh if you tickle it…
Anyway, those luscious smells coming from the kitchen woke me and it could only mean one thing; a little G. gallus domesticus would end up in my chow dish. I wandered into the kitchen area about the same time The Man did…it’s safe to assume the same smells woke him from his own late afternoon nap and he knew some G. gallus domesticus would end up in his chow dish as well…
I eavesdropped on the conversation The Lady and The Man were having. Like the Pan troglodyte, they were laughing…they do that a lot…laughter being the best medicine and all…when suddenly I felt terror strike in my heart and my feline blood began to run cold…The Lady was discussing with The Man the possibility of “ungrounding” me (that was good news…places to go; humankinds to observe). You may recall the unfortunate “smoking incident”.
At first I thought I had misunderstood; I prayed I misunderstood. If not, I knew at that moment, “Mother Ship, we have a problem.” The Brain was not going to be happy…
I needed to react quickly but nonchalantly. The last thing I wanted was for The Man to think he might be onto something. The mission must be protected at all costs. To confound the Man and hopefully move him off-topic, I rubbed his legs…hey, don’t knock it, it works… ask The Lady…
I listened carefully and I heard the words clearly; the words that threatened everything we feline observers have accomplished over time – a real threat should The Man’s discovery get out and other humankinds agree. (Quite frankly, I didn’t think he was that clever. It’s always the ones you least expect, isn’t it?)
The Lady laughed and said “Let me get this straight. You think cats are aliens. Aliens from another planet.” The Man confirmed that was his suspicion. The Lady asked him to explain and this was when panic set it…
The Man said, “Think about it. Most cats are strays that just show up at your door one day. Muff was a stray; Miff was a stray; Biff was a stray; Buff was a stray (Buff lived with The Lady’s brother, Joel, God rest his soul); Mike Tyson was a stray and Spaulding Gray is a stray. All of Judy’s cats are strays; Dave Willis has a stray; Amy, your BCFF, has a stray. We all have strays.” The Lady laughed again and asked with skepticism, “So?”
The Man continued, “Here’s what happens.” (I guess he thinks he’s as clever as Monk, “the humankind world’s greatest detective” – Monk has his own TV show; it’s almost as popular as the President Obama Show…) Aliens arrive in a spaceship and need to insinuate themselves into our society in order to spy on us. What better way than to beam down; assume the form of a stray cat; take up with a family and voila (no wonder he likes Brie de Nangis; he speaks French, who knew?)…a spy in our midst. We think cats are these innocent animals we save (and take away certain, critical body parts…). We speak freely in front of them; they watch our every move.”
By this time The Lady had stopped laughing and was looking at The Man as though she was sure he had lost his mind… she does that a lot. I relaxed a bit; thinking she wasn’t buying his latest nutty thought pattern. Perhaps she would keep him in check and save our secret from becoming public knowledge.
But no, that’s when she dropped the bomb, “So using your theory that would mean Mike Tyson was some kind of commander.” The Man replied, “Exactly, he spent half the week with us and when we went to go to the desert on Thursday, he spent those days with Julie. Mike Tyson had at least two houses to watch. He had to be an important leader for the aliens.”
I was filled with conflicting thoughts. First of all, I was humbled to be reminded I had been chosen to assume the legendary Mike Tyson’s mission; but The Man had figured it all out including that there are low-level watchers and upper-level commanders who control entire streets. He even knew how special the legendary Mike Tyson was.
I dread reporting to The Brain. Perhaps I can wait and see if other humans tumble to The Man’s “theory”. But alas, that is not to be.
The Lady went to her computer and starting emailing all her friends with stray cats; warning them to be careful about what they say and do in front of their feline friends. After several humankinds reported back, she told The Man, “From now on, when we want to discuss important matters; we’ll have to use the shower. Spaulding Gray will never follow us into the rain closet.”
Yep, The Brain is going to be royally pissed…
Follow me on:
