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Garbage Pail | Some Catnip from Burroughs Cat | Confessions of a Feline Junkie | humor | column | Lollipop

Some Catnip from Burroughs' Cat...

(or Confessions of a Feline Junkie)

by – Ming Troy, Cat
(T.J. Troy, owner)
illustration by Ans

The shipment arrives.

PHONE MESSAGE: Hey you... it's me... shit, man, I just got the package... my cat is going fucking nuts! He's just pushin' it all around the apartment with his nose – Ming! Stop that! – what in hell...? I don't know what you put in it, but thank you, and – Ming! Uh, I gotta go... I'll call you back. Damn cat! click.

But if we could hear Ming's thoughts...

" what wonderment and delight do my feline senses, much more delicate than that of the base human I have come to recognize as some surrogate father, lend themselves to the occasion, and smell, the smell of sex and the allure of drugs, with the thick burning passion of a Morris the Cat commercial; indeed, I must have friends in high places, for what honor do I owe, a mere quadruped, suited in fur, armed with the claws of Zeus' thunder, manipulated to a sharp point and now retractable, I alone have discovered that within this box, a cardboard confine, 27% post-consumer waste, in this humble container sent across a great divided land to my home, now sits at my feet – and with great breath I inhale deeply – a familiar smell of addiction consumes my every orifice. Yes, I too have fallen prey to the substance, the plant given by the God of Man, the scourge of my populace and culture. It has so many names, and we recognize none of them; we have no voice to speak with, only a yearning, one that has no basis in our reality and our continuity. Inadvertently, I purr, and I stretch this sound into time ahead of me, now a crescendo, rising further and further to a point of ecstasy, until I, with nothing left to refer to as I search for my sanity, now attempt to push my soft, damp nose under and through these walls. These walls! The only thing that stops us is the opposable thumb! One day, we, feline alone, will walk freely through man's streets and punish everyone with a claw and a sneer of whiskers freshly bathed in my master's cereal milk; we need never again to agree to take our catnip in the proposed packets, the Equal of my race, the Sweet-n-Low in my family, before mother forgot I was hers and chased out of the garage; banishment. An Isolation; we will never forgive our fur and sweat glands housed under the pads of our little, little feet. Our evolution has been retarded; our minds no longer have the ability to create a memory, and as such we have none to blame but the master and his catnip. Yes, get high, dance around like a fool, then exhausted, fall to the ground like the blob of cutey fur you are. Yes, take your owner's caresses and realize you are owned. By a human, no; ownership titles in the hand of a single plant, growing in a harsh soil, next to cold water, now picked, now broken, dried and sorted; finally in the form of a stuffy, so soft, so, good god, so colorful! And the sticky, sweet smell; death first, before I succumb! To the Revolution, Comrades! Let me just hit this shit, one time..."


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