As everyone knows, this is the Year of the Cat at Drinking Tips for Teens, and, trust me, the cats are not the least bit pleased about having the spotlight taken away from them by this Covarona nonsense. Do you think the cats care about the humans getting sick and dying in astronomical numbers? Do you think the cats care period? They do not, sir, they do not!
But that’s what we love about them, yes? No? Again, it doesn’t matter to them. But for better or worse, they too have been affected by this shut-down as they’ve had to adjust to spending their days with people who Just. Won’t. Leave. So I thought I’d bring you up to speed on how our house cats are hangin’. (I’m sorry, the cats made me write that.)
It’s hard to tell what goes through Lincoln’s head. Mostly light breezes. Lincoln has a large body and a disproportionately small skull, like a child’s drawing of a cat. He often seems to be lost in thought, but if you look deep in his eyes, you can see a teeny-tiny “For Rent” sign. In other words, the lockdown has not affected Lincoln in any significant way. I’m not quite sure he knows coronavirus exists. Or it could be that he simply denies it exists. Sometimes I’ll come home and find the TV turned to “Fox & Friends” with no one around, not even a white male, and Lincoln will be just sitting there, staring vacantly—I mean, more vacantly than normal—smelling vaguely of bleach. Sometimes he stretches out in the sun, like he’s trying to get the light inside his body—probably through his vacant skull, so he might just succeed! The other day, I leaned in close, and I swear I heard him whisper, “5G…” Or possibly “More cheese…”
Chandler is the most skittish of all the cats and in this way is probably the most typical of how most of us are spending our time during the pandemic: over-eating, spending too much time on Twitter and hiding under the bed.
Polly certainly has the largest personality among the cats, and by that I mean she is the largest. With that big, can-claw attitude, she’s been spending the time during lockdown reaching out to the other cats in the neighbourhood, making sure they’re well stocked in litter. She’s been participating in all the video challenges—the Push-up Challenge, the Handstand Challenge, the Hairball Challenge—making little cat-sized face masks to distribute and finally getting around to destroying that chair she’s been putting off destroying (because she’s been so busy, you see, with her full-time job destroying all the other chairs). When life gives Polly lemons, Polly makes lemons fall right off the table with a flick of her paw. Yes, of all the Covid cats, she is definitely the most insufferable. So don’t worry about Polly during the pandemic, because she’s no shrinking violet and is definitely not shrinking. Follow her on Instagram! @pollypawprincessfuntimemeow. #tuna
Ollie is Polly’s sister and always in her shadow—again, because Polly is massive. Consequently, Ollie tends to be more contemplative and has been spending the lockdown in more artistic pursuits, like pooping in the litter box. Anyone can poop in a litter box, you say. My five-year-old could poop in the litter box. Yes, but it’s how she poops in the litter box! There, there and, in counterpoint, there! It’s exquisite. Very textural. Very Francis Bacon. Very Fancy Feast. Ollie has also been working on her poetry, mostly love sonnets to me:
Shall I compare thee to a half-chewed mouse?
Thou art heads above all others by compare—
For the mouse head is hidden in the house,
The gut parts plopped by the wicker chair.
Six feet I cannot stay away from thee,
Nor metres two if metric be your pleasure.
About your face I rub the face of me,
And pray thy beard host crumbs—my treasure.
I shed for thee and shed some more,
Upon thy pillow with drool still drying,
Thou lets me in by opening thy door
And out again upon my mewlish crying.
Thou feedst me food, and this I’ve ne’er forgot.
Still, I can visit anyone; you, hombre, cannot.
Thanks for the intro to the cats. Love the sonnet! And I can tell it’s real poetry because it’s in italics. Apropos of nothing, well… cats, duh, did you know when I filled in the paperwork you get when you arrive at Mt A. and there’s a line that is RELIGION _______________, I wrote cat worship? (Oh boy, that was a terribly constructed sentence. Not enough coffee yet, so don’t care. Read it and weep.)
This is a vary foregiving blog slpeling wise, also with structure things? Too?
Cat worship, eh? You were kidding yourself, you born-again dogmatist, you.
You should have written Bastet, you ignorant.
Ah, good point! But it was pre-university schooling, so I was ignorant, indeed!
This could be the great new beginning of a cat horoscope—in which people are identified as a type of cat based on our behavior. Sadly, I am more Chandler than Ollie, in nature. Oh to write such mouse-breath-ed odes! Truly, a cat among men!
I write like Lincoln: vapid and lazy. But bless you!
But now rocking a kick-ass beard. Can the stove-pipe hat be far behind?
Lincoln the cat but also maybe Abe.
I know your whole blog post was interesting, however my brain has turned to mush after 70 days in isolation (See our Roadtirement article about the 10th Anniversary) (sorry, not, for the blatant ad). All I can remember about the post is something about a sonnet composing feline who poops in a litter box, and an hombre that can’t go visit. Nice cultural diversity, by the way.
Another mushy brain. My streak remains intact.
Ollie seems uniquely artistic – not the excremental expressionism, but her ability to write sonnets, she does seem devoted. How do I love thee, let me catalog the ways.
If the cats are out of the room, I have a suggestion. July 2nd draws near. The day in 1776 when our Continental Congress voted for independence. Except for New York, of course, which abstained, courteously. It also marks the 1/2 way point in the year. You’ve got 56 days to drop this Year of the Cat thing, and declare a theme that doesn’t involve hairballs.
But I’m on a roll!
Also, I can’t believe no one has clicked the Instagram link.
I didn’t want to chance it, might be an automated self-cleaning litter box ad, or an animated GIF of Sir Ian McKellen as Gus the Theatre Cat, hawking up a hairball.
I did appreciate “drool still drying” rhymed with “mewlish crying,” that’s pretty inspired.
I assumed it was a “made ya look” kinda thing. My bad. I’ve now clicked.
My fake sites are always real.
apparently i am the love child of ollie and chandler. it was a surrogate birth.
I didn’t think anybody could top my favorite Shakespeare sonnet, but damn if your cat didn’t come close…
You should hear what the cats are saying about you after spending all this time together
They’re realizing I’m an easy mark.
Cats are adorable
Among other words.