The other day, during National Library Week, I noticed our cat thumbing through a book. Wait a minute, I stand corrected.
Since cats don't have thumbs, she was pawing it. Anyways, I went up to her and said," Hi Kitty, Kitty, what are you reading?" Because I didn't have any food for her, she ignored be with her usual disdain. As I humbly walked away, I noticed the book was entitled, "Pets' Letters to God."
Give me a break. First of all, our cat only writes notes that we find around the house, not letters. Notes like, "I need more food, you idiot" and "clean my litter box, you idiot." She could never write a letter because she could never stay awake long enough to complete one. Secondly, she would never write a letter to God because she believes she is God.
Usually, when she wakes up, it's certainly not with the intention of putting words on a page. She breaks her slumber and heads for the basement for a typical snack of 4 pounds of something-flavored crunchiness; a drink of water; and a trip to the litter box. That is her schedule and letter writing is not an element in her typical day.
Several pounds heavier from her snack, she struggles back up the stairs where she returns to her couch and favorite blanket. Exhausted by her trip to devour food, she needs to nap once again.
This routine goes on and on except when the postman rings. Then she attacks the door growling like the spawn of Satan and goes completely bonkers, which drains her of energy so that she needs a new supply of sustenance; and another nap that lasts all afternoon. Then she awakes in time for dinner. Believe me, I don't see her writing any letters to God in her immediate future.
But if she were to write one, I imagine that our little sweetheart would include the following.
Dear God, there are several things I'd like you to do that would improve my life. Thanks for creating me but, come on, you could've done a lot better. Why can't the two idiots that I live with put my food on the same level where I sleep 23 hours of the day? As it is, I have to go up and down stairs to get the same old dry kernels that keep me alive but, for crying out loud, how about a bit of variety? The bag doesn't even have a generic flavor stamped on it. That pretty much describes the personality of the guy who fills the dish. Boring. He rubs my belly occasionally, which he thinks is doing me a favor. Big deal. I like having my head and neck scratched but please, get him away from my belly before I tear his throat out.
Oh yeah, there's a cat that lives next door that I hate. The woman that I live with calls her Misty, which sounds so sweet, but she looks more like an ugly dark cloud to me. If I could get my front paws on that beast, I would tear her from her ugly whiskers to raggedy tail. She thinks she's so smart and better than me because she goes outside and hunts for her own food. As if I really want filet of rat. Oh yeah, as if I really want to sink my teeth into a squirrel or the entrails of a chipmunk. Misty's so yesterday with that hunting gig.
So that's it for now God. Got to go. Time for my nap.
Moving on from our little bundle of joy and sweetness, I came across this letter from King Kong to the Almighty.
The reason I'm writing this letter is that I have several complaints that I know you can remedy. I was doing just fine as a larger than average primate on Skull Island when I was kidnapped. Now I'm known as King Kong, a freaky entertainment novelty here in the Big Apple. I'm in a one man show on Broadway with hundreds gawking at me night after night even though the reviews stink.
My act is pretty basic and frankly demeaning. I do a little roaring, thrash around with my hands and legs in chains, and that's pretty much it. Hundreds of women scream and everybody goes home happy except me. If I don't get to do some song and dance soon, I want a different agent.
I'm now known around the world as, "neither beast nor man," so thanks a lot. I'm a giant gorilla, OK? My point is, I've got to get back to the jungle and do jungle things. Where's PETA when you need them?
I'm 50 feet tall, so do you realize how embarrassing it is to hang around buildings in New York without any pants on? How about at least a thong. Last Thursday, I needed some exercise so I climbed a small building. I ended up with a crowd of New Yorkers looking up at me, laughing and pointing," And he calls himself a King?" "Hey, look there's Queen Kong." Who needs the ridicule?
So, come on God. Get me out of here soon, get me some pants, or I'm going to create a scene.
Here's a letter from man's best friend.
This is your doggy friend, Lassie. I might be the world's most famous dog but I'm going to die if you don't get me off of this farm soon. Everybody around here is an idiot. That's all I do all day long is rescue some fool after he does something stupid. Just the other day, I was trying to take a nap when I got called to rescue a bunch of ducks that got stuck in the mud. As if the world would miss a few ducks.
How's this for being appreciated? I recently got sold by my family because of economic difficulties. I guess pulling little Timmy from the well wasn't good enough. Do you hear me, God? Get me out of here.
Here's a letter from our Disney pet cricket, Jiminy.
It's your little insect buddy, Jiminy Cricket, as if I need to be identified because of all the other movie star crickets. The purpose of my letter is to have you get me away from this fool Pinocchio. He's taking this real boy business to dangerous extremes. I'm supposed to be his official conscience but this wooden-head numbskull won't listen to me.
If I have one wish upon a star, I wish that you turn him back into a puppet before I end up in the belly of a whale. If you've ever smelled fermenting kelp, a whale's belly is the last place you want to be. Get me out of here.
Finally we have a letter from an old buddy from the black and white era of TV.
It's Mr. Ed, your not so happy talking horse. There's one item that has me very upset and I want an answer NOW!!! I just met a cute little palomino the other day named Jessica. I was looking forward to a date with this young filly when my whiny friend Wilbur informed me of a rather startling situation. So my question to you is this: WHY AM I A GELDING? HUH? WHAT DID I EVER DO TO DESERVE THE CHOP SHOP?
Very frankly, I don't give a hoot about being TV's only talking horse. I'll give up talking in a hoof beat if I could be a stallion who keeps his mouth shut. If anybody deserves to be gelded it's that idiot Wilbur who talks about nothing but nonsense day after day. I could hardly stand it and now this gelding business comes to my attention.
I always wondered about my theme song. Now I understand how appropriate the words are: "A horse is a horse, of course, of course, unless he's Mr. Ed."
Come on, God, you can do it. I want my boys back.
Nin Privitera is a Fredonia resident. Send comments to email@example.com