A Short Tale of a Kitty in Taiwan
I was meandering around the city I call home at night and stopped in my tracks as I came upon a curiosity.
A lone kitty on a lonely street staring up at a lonely empty wall.
What was it doing? Why was it ignoring me standing there? Couldn’t it hear me speak?
I’m fluent in cat, after all.
Maybe it saw a ghost? Was it waiting for its owner to come back? Or was this was more of a Hachikō situation, where the faithful pet stands guard waiting for an owner to never return from the grave?
I had to know.
So I waited and kept clicking.
Why won’t you look at me kitty?
I think. I breathe. I make weird little kitty chirping noises.
Do I not exist in your world?
A bit more time passes.
Then at last — success!
I have gained its attention!
The kitty shall now surely come over for pets and murmurs, something only second to catnip in the kitty world.
The joy is short-lived.
Alas, I am but a nuisance.
He turns back.
I stand there in indignance after being rebuffed. I take the time to zoom in.
I wait further.
And then the moment of clarity comes.
Ahhhhh, that’s why. Yes, of course.
I had forgotten the real order of importance in kitty world:
#4. Murmurs from humans
#3. Petting (not heavy)
#1. Incredibly loud scary screaming cat lovemaking that gives me nightmares and keeps me awake at night because my neighborhood is apparently an open-invite orgy for anything with fur on its back and claws in front.
This is from my semi-successful newsletter, Pryor Thoughts, where I write a bit more oddly than usual.