Three Thoughts, And Morris The Cat

I am having three thoughts today:

1.  I have never had a deep personal relationship with a cat or a dog, so I am both envious of and a little puzzled by those who can count them as family members.

2.  Since I have become consciously intuitive, dogs have communicated with me on three separate occasions.  The spirit dog wanted me to tell his owner that he was well and happy and still with him.  The elderly dog wanted me to tell his owner how much he appreciated her loving care, but that he would be going soon and she was not to mourn too much.  The third dog expressed similar appreciation for his care, said his medical problem was not in his ears but in his head, and added that he would choose to die alone to save his owners pain.  All of them radiated love for their families.

3.  A few years ago, before my intuition fully kicked in, the ad industry briefly tried to bring back Morris the Cat in cat food commercials.  At the time and just for fun, I wrote a little piece of whimsy about a reporter who could hear Morris in his head.  I did not foresee that I would ever have the same ability, although I haven’t yet had an opportunity to test it with cats. 

Here’s what I wrote:

     Morris the Cat Tells All

I can’t say I like my newest assignment.  I’ve been sent to cover the return of Morris the Cat to public life.  You remember Morris, cuter-than-cute kitty who began pushing 9-Lives cat food back in the late sixties, early seventies.  He was a bit of a curmudgeon with a little bite of irony in his spiel.  They’re trotting him out at a “news” conference today to kick off this new campaign, and I’ll be there with the other third-stringers to get the story.  God, what story?!

The event is set up in a banquet room in a medium-swanky New York hotel.  As I step out of my cab I become part of a crowd of eager young reporters headed inside.  We’re each hoping that by some miracle we can turn this story into something so good, so original, that it will be the beginning of a grand career in print.  We always hope that. 

Inside we assemble in folding chairs facing a small table draped in a white good-quality cloth.  The table is raised on a platform and is flanked by nice chairs with padded seats.  In the center of the table sits a velveteen pillow with muted stripes of purple, blue, and gold.  By some stroke of luck (or misfortune) I have been propelled right into a seat that is front and center to the table.

Soon enough an over-groomed gentleman enters from a side door, and the crowd quiets down.  The ad guy gives us a few words of welcome, then segues right into an intro for “the greatest and most popular spokescat in the world,  Morris the Cat!”

Two men in suits enter, and one is carrying The Cat as though it might explode in his arms at any moment.  Morris wears a red collar and leash, and the logo of his company, 9-Lives, dangles under his chin.  He squints his eyes as he is settled gently upon the pillow, fluffs himself into the softness, tucks is front feet beneath his chest, and gives us all a look.  I notice that his handler never lets go of the leash. 

I prepare to take copious notes.  Then my attention is caught, for Morris’s squinchy little eyes are staring directly at me, unblinking.  I stare back into the jade-green slits, and a voice in my head speaks.

Hey, man, what the hell are you doing here?  Looks like you’d have something better to do than show up for this crap.”

I snap my head aroundto see that my colleagues are paying rapt attention to the man who is summarizing The Cat’s career and listing the reasons for his comeback.  I busy myself with paper and pencil, but inevitably my eyes are drawn back to Morris.  Our eyes lock again.

“Don’t listen to these jerks.  I’ll tell you anything you want to know.  I am NOT Morris the Cat, don’t want to BE Morris the Cat.  The name’s Big Man.  It was a sad day when I got “rescued” for this gig.  I can’t stand that 9-Lives crud.”

Oh damn, I’m losing my mind.  I tell myself to hang on, get back on track, you’re missing the story.  But all on their own my eyes go back to his.

“Listen, fella.  I need you to get the word out for me.  They’re workin’ me to death, it ain’t right.  You think a photo-shoot’s a picnic, a commercial is a nap in the sun?  Come on, get this stuff down.  I want out, and you’re my ticket.”

There’s a shuffling of feet and the scraping of chairs and the event is over.  I watch as Morris is carried from the room, glancing backward, looking for me.  I feel bad, first because Morris the Cat will never escape his good fortune, and second because I’ll have to pass on a good story.


Dogs come when they are called; cats take a message and get back to you.                                                    Mary Bly

Do not meddle in the affairs of cats, for they are subtle and will piss on your computer.                                               Elisabeth Riba




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This entry was posted on Sunday, December 20th, 2009 at 6:37 pm and is filed under Things to Think About. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.

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