Proof that life is occasionally brutally unfair...
yet...
... followed by proof that occasionally, it is not unfair. How else to explain the swing of the pendulum towards all that is good, righteous, and unspeakably cute? Namely, how might a world so cruel as to contain a cat that dines upon steak and other precious foodstuffs at the table of the Great Oppressors also contain...me? I do not presume to know the answer, I only ask that you look to me for your guiding light. Sort of like the full-spectrum lightbulbs that J. screwed into all of the lamps in the house. I don't know how B. and J.'s seasonal affective disorder is these days, but I've never felt better. When they're gone I just sit under the light and bask, bask, bask. Those things are awesome! The only thing better for a sour mood is... you guessed it... ME.
2 comments:
Dear Sid. Like I always tell Selma and Miles, the day they start paying the bills and doing housework (including picking up after themselves in the yard) is the day they get to eat at the table. Think about it, Sid.
Please do not take my above statement as condoning cats eating at the table, lord knows that I think cats should be not let in the house in the first place, but then again, I will never have feline friends - allergic.
Dear Auto-
While your retort is cogent, I fear I must disagree. you see, if we dogs were not faced with the handicap of opposable thumbs, we might be happy to help out with housework or hold a job that enabled us to pay bills. But sadly, until my work with designing prosthetic hands for dogs moves past the experimental phase, we are shackled by our anatomy. Until that glorious day when we can grasp a shovel and remove our own poop from the yard, we are prisoners of an unjust system. Until modern science allows us to work alongside the Great Oppressors, would it really harm you so much to allow us to dine upon the china plates?
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