My Kitty Cat Still Hasn’t Grasped the Gravity of This Election
A week ago I awoke, bleary-eyed and exhausted. I’d been up until past three in the morning watching the election results. I stayed up to witness the conventional wisdom get turned on its head. I’d gone to bed too tired to take my makeup off. I’d gone to bed knowing that the President-elect was Donald Trump.
But Miss Meowsers, my kitty cat? She still had no idea.
Miss Meowsers had gone to bed early. No doubt she’d spent the evening dreaming of cornering a terrified mouse and slowly murdering it. Cats love that so much!
But it was a new day. We had a new president. I was going to tell Miss Meowsers the news. I had no idea how she would take it. I wasn’t sure where she stood. Like me, she’s a woman, but Miss Meowsers is a kitty cat and doesn’t talk politics much.
I approached her as she napped on the sofa. She awoke when I was close — raising her head as if to attack me and eat my head like that guy from Siegfried & Roy. Fortunately her mouth is too small.
“Miss Meowsers,” I said in my gentlest voice, “my kitty-witty, we have a new prezzy-wezzy.”
When I talk to cats I like to talk the way Russell Brand talks all the time.
She looked at me as I spoke. I had to assume that meant she was intellectually engaged.
“It’s Donald Trumpy-wumpy,” I stated.
She began to lick her crotch. It started casually at first, but then built up with increased vigor. After several moments, she threw a back leg up and began to give that a lick as well. She looked at me briefly before returning to lick her leg a little more. Then more crotch for good measure.
I didn’t quite understand her detached response. I thought that maybe I’d confused her by talking like Russell Brand, so I chose to talk like a normal human being.
“The President-elect is Donald Trump,” I stated, as Megyn Kelly-ish as I could.
I waited for her reaction. She sniffed. She sniffed again. Perhaps she was going to cry, I thought to myself. It turned out she was just smelling things, as cats do. She remained emotionless. Neither happy nor sad at what I felt was certainly big news.
I stared into her kitty cat eyes, hoping that maybe I could send psychic think-beams into her kitty cat head. “Trump won the election” I thought to myself, wondering if I might see a spark in her eyes when the message was received.
No luck. She rolled on her back and dared me to rub her belly — which always resulted in me getting the crap scratched out of my hands. I’d fallen for it a million times before, but not today. Today, I wanted her to know what had just happened. This was big news, and she was acting nonplussed.
She stood up and turned so that I could see her cat bum. Nasty. Shameless.
I was disappointed. Obviously a kitty cat’s not going to grasp the election like a 5-year old child does when mommy comes storming into the bedroom, flailing and weeping. But still, I expected something.
She stared off into the distance, her expression suggesting she had not a thought in the world.
“You just don’t get it,” I said, shaking my head, “Donald Trump won. That worries me greatly, Miss Meowsers.”
She turned to me, kneading her claws into the sofa.
“You didn’t vote, you don’t get to bitch,” she meowed.
