Constitutional Crisis (Part 1 of 2)
The President of the War on Terror signed a spy bill for screening the air, scrutinizing the sea, and protecting money for nuclear states.He sat at the lip of my litter box, kicking his cracked and scaly yellow feet. Ants swarmed a pellet of NF Kidney Formula food by the back door.
"America is a rapidly growing company fiercely dedicated to providing exceptional experiences for its customers and its employees," he said.
I looked into the President of the War on Terror's glassine, coconut eyes. I licked my right haunch.
Why does the mechanical wind-up mouse from Mexico clatter like a modernist engine? Why does it behave? Why stir? Why is pumpkin fur unseen?
"America is fully productive on arrival in the new workplace, Shimmy, and settles just as quickly into its new environment." The President of the War on Terror ducked his head into my litter box.Moist in the morning. Slimy in the afternoon. Cold at dusk and gone in the evening. My food dish, sentimental, torn from flakes of crushed Enacard.
"Where's that copy of the Constitution that your cousin, Winter, gave you?" he asked.Summer surprises me. Below the spigot, there you feel free. I fall asleep along the porcelain circumstance of the bathtub and scratch the shut kitchen door much of the night.
He licked the back of his hand and washed his face with it. He likes the corky taste of his own skin.
"We've been through this before," I said. "I know what you want to do with it."
posted by Shimmy at 8:44 AM
5 Comments:
Shimmy, my fine feline friend, if the pResident of the War on Terror, Crawford Caligula, was in your litter box, why didn't you bury it?
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Oh, Tomcat, this is an astute question, I agree. And I appreciate your concern.
I do squat and deliver an occasional Abu Ghraib pyramid in the corner of the living room, but this is a matter of choice. If I buried the Caligula (with its glassine, coconut eyes) in my Tora Bora Litter Box, then I'd have nowhere else to go when my bowels or kidneys are swelled. As you know, the most common reason a cat will not use her litter box is that the box is dirty (that is, "dirty" from the cat's viewpoint, not from the viewpoint of the Republican National Committee, or from that of the White House Reich Ministry for People's Enlightenment and Propaganda).
I have enough stress in my life with the mechanical windup mouse they brought back from Mexico clattering on the hardwood floors, and with the threat of the unemployed Rumsfeld coming around with his Zuni doll looking for handout. If the vainglorious Crawford Caligula suddenly dug itself into one of my sand dunes, I'd never be able to use that box again. As it stands now, the whole room still smells like sulfur.
Shimmy, there's another way to look at this. Since dawgs love to eat kitty litter crunchies, have your neighborhood pooch dig him up and eat him later. Then fumigate the kitty box. You'd be back in business after only a pile or two, and think of the service you'd be performing for the world. ;-)
The new dog in the building has pressed his snout against our back screen door far too many times. It's a thought. He wouldn't like it -- but we could give him a medal later. Or name the F.B.I. Building after him.
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