The Island Of Dr. McMoreau

Sometimes I wish I could talk to animals. Scratch that, I already can talk to animals. I really mean I wish that animals could talk to me.

I don’t mean all animals. I don’t need squirrels bugging me with their day-to-day problems. Going on and on about the lack of good quality nuts this harvest season or how hard it is to find affordable daycare for their little baby squirrel babies. I don’t need stray dogs coming up to me on the streets looking for a handout or maybe asking me to “adopt him“, pleading with me to “give him a good home”, in order to “save him from certain death”. But I say no way.This is America, Scrappy-Doo. Get a job.

I wish my animals could talk to me. I have cats. Well, I have my wife, and my wife has cats. Or my wife has me, and my wife has cats. Either way, this equation equals me having cats. (Damn algebra, I’ll never understand your wicked ways!)… I say cats because it’s more than one cat. If it was only one I would just say cat. Not cats. Which is why I said it plural. I don’t want to say how many cats we have because I don’t want to be labeled as just another beautiful, sensitive, thoughtful crazy cat lady/man/boy with haunting blue eyes and an almost insatiable hunger for knowledge and thirst for Crystal Light iced tea.Yeah, it is delicious, and only 5 calories per serving. Say what?!… So let’s just say that we have more than one cat but less than a million and one cat(s).

I wish these cats could talk to me and tell whats going down. The oldest one is 10 years old, and the youngest one is 10 months old. Theres a lot of tension betwixt felines in my house and it’s because of the generation gap. The oldest one would say, “Please kill that little shit, I hate his stupid cat face. I’m just chilling out, trying to watch my stories, and this dickhole’s trying to play a game of full contact slap-tickle-fuck with me. But full contact slap-tickle-fuck ain’t no game, yo!”” Well said older, wiser cat. Well said indeed…..The younger one would say something like, “meow”, ’cause he’s kind of dumb. Then we’d sit around talking shit about all the freeloading stray dogs begging for spare change in the street and we would laugh at them. Then they would inevitably claw me and I’d bleed, and then I’d cry. But they would still be laughing. Laughing at me. That’s why I hate them. They laugh at me while I bleed and cry.

And I just want to know…. What the fuck, cats?

What the fucks this cat thinking?