I said to the human, “Look, human, you belong to me.” Then I demonstrated by putting my paw on her. Sometimes, humans need to be reminded of their properly submissive roles in cat/human relationships. If you let the humans start to feel like they’re in charge, what’s next? Not changing the littler box? Altering the food schedule? The human not petting me when I sit on her chest and wave my tail in her face? No. Unacceptable. Humans must be made to understand their place. The female human is lucky that I only put my paw on her arm. I could have put my paw on her arm and stuck my claws out. I am a great cat, though. I know that authority must be tempered with mercy. With great power comes great responsibility, you know. Or you don’t know. I totally just made that up. I’m awesome like that.
For some reason, the humans think that this is their bed. I tell them, “No, humans, obviously this is my bed! You see the elaborate scroll work? You think this bed was designed as a resting place for mere humans?” Then, just to make my point, I entrench myself even further, burrowing under the covers. I have no need of a blanket. Look at me. Cruella de Vil would skin me in an instant and have enough for two coats and a hat. Which would look much better than whatever she could get from a bunch of spotty dogs. Ugh, puppies. Don’t even get me started. I met a dog, once. It peed in my bowl. However, I, Sammy, have had the last laugh. One of my fellow cats steals that dog’s food and its bed, every day. And people say that cats aren’t social. What’s more social than having minions to do your bidding?
The following passage is an excerpt from my biography:
"And on that day, Sammy said, ‘Behold! For these are all the fucks I give.’ And truly, there were none. Just fluffy, fluffy toe-hawks, and the powerful indifference only able to be mustered by those of cat-kind."
The working title is The Book of Samuel but I’m not sure if even that title is an accurate reflection of my grandiosity.
Also, please ignore the sister-cat in the background of this photograph. She’s trying, as per usual, to steal my thunder, and I keep telling her, “You should not toy with thunder, because I can’t guarantee that you will be too fond of what follows after it.” Then she makes this odd merping noise at me. Honestly, I can barely understand what she says half the time. It’s like she doesn’t even speak English. I think she may be developmentally delayed.
Wouldn’t you, be, though, if you had a brother who was the very embodiment of the glory of fluff and you yourself were inadequately short of fur?
I don’t really know what comes after thunder, either. I suspect it might have something to do with that hammer-thing that the female human put on me, but thinking about things aside from grooming and my own splendor are really taxing for me. It’s no fault of my own, of course. My splendor is mighty and my grooming schedule is rigid.
I did not agree to share my box with this not-cat. This not-cat doesn’t deserve to inhabit the same domicile as Sammy, much less the same box. I already am forced to tolerate the sister cat. I draw the line at dealing with sad pretenders.
Sammy is art. Art is Sammy.
Apparently humans need all of this stuff in order to be beautiful.
Humans are so sad.
The female human put this thing on me and said, "Whosoever holds this hammer, if he be worthy, shall possess the power of Thor." And I said, "Who is this Thor? Does he have long, luxurious fur like mine?” Then she showed me a picture of this Thor, and I had to admit that his fur was indeed long and luxurious. Plus, this thing is kind of heavy, and I need to conserve my energy for grooming. So I admitted that I was not worthy. And then I took a nap. But, rest assured, humans, if I ever meet this Thor, I will not be so quick to admit defeat. No matter how beautiful his hair is. I am Sammy. I am worthy of everything.
This is how Sammy drinks. Because standing up? That’s for bitches.
Project 365, Photo 235 on Flickr.
Sammy likes to get all up in my face as soon as I wake up.