Cute, Curt and Corruptive
Chester and I were sitting at my computer one day, when I noticed he had an admirer who liked his blog. It’s a website called cutepetsblog.com. I showed him a story it had, titled, “Which One Is Better? An Adorable Puppy Or A Loving Adult Dog?” Chester said, “neither.” “The correct answer is a cute Chester and they should rename the blog cutechesterblog.com,” the temperamental tabby jeered. “Furthermore, all stories on the internet should be about me.” With that, he hit Ctrl/Alt/Delete and powered off the computer; never mind I was doing work that I hadn’t saved.
Now I had thoughts of strangling the narcissistic cat for the time I wasted because of him. If I did, my wife, Genifer and daughter, Lily would notice someone was missing in the house and rightly suspect me. In Connecticut, animal cruelty convictions can range from $200 to $10,000 fines and or 30 days to 10 years of incarceration. Since I’m both cheap, and not wanting to spend significant time in a place where I would not have control of the TV remote; Chester’s life was spared.
“As we all know, cats rule the world.”
John R.F. Breen
“Why did you do that?” I asked dishearteningly; though it wasn’t like I had lost my capstone for a cure of cancer. “Because everything should be about me,” Chester exclaimed.
“I already thought it is always about you,” I retorted. “Not even close,” Chester whined.
I was beginning to think my megalomaniac cat could get a job running North Korea. A nation whose citizens are indoctrinated in the art of personality cults. I could easily see them do the same for Chester. That would be grand. A “Day of the Cat” parade every year with military vehicles that are capable of firing intercontinental ballistic missiles with nuclear warheads infused with kibble; plus, smiling citizens waving wildly at the furry despot, while others march in robotic unison holding posters picturing him in an august pose.
I was so sure he could do the job, I checked LinkedIn and a few other employment sites, to see if the country was looking for a new dictator. Sadly, they weren’t. I wrote up a resume anyway with Chester’s input and sent it to the job search locations, just in case something opens up down the road.
Chester was excited at the thought of running his own country. “Can you imagine that,” he said, with a maniacal purr that worried me. “I could have kibble 24-hours a day. No more solitary in the basement. All I would have to do is raise my tail and 20 subordinates would come running with golden bowls full of my favorite food. And if one of them is slow to deliver on my order, they’ll wish they had a basement to hide in.”
I had created a monster.
With that, I placed a call to Homeland Security. They said they appreciated the information I gave them, but weren’t going to issue a “National Terrorism Advisory System Bulletin” because of a crazy cat, albeit, a very dangerous one. They suggested I contact my local animal control service or TMZ.
“Four legs good, two legs bad.”
George Orwell, Animal Farm
Truthfully, I am disappointed in the federal government’s war on terrorism. They don’t fully understand the threat Chester poses if he becomes some country’s autocrat. We could have a Planet of the Apes situation in our lifetime if this wannabe Il Duce rises to power.
We must warn the world of this impending danger! One if by land, two if by sea and three if it’s several ICBMs with nuclear warheads infused with kibble.
The Joy of Flushing
Chester switched his focus from autocratic rule to moving on to his favorite aperitif; toilet water. Similar to James Bond, who likes his martinis shaken, not stirred; Chester will only lap up the eau de toilette when it moves clockwise in the bowl. How fortunate he lives in the Northern Hemisphere; then again, he’s never been further south than New Haven. This ritual precedes his 6 p.m. feeding, where he’s also provided a bowl of filtered water to cleanse his taste buds.
I’d love to read the New York Times food critic’s story on Chester’s late afternoon happy hour refreshment.
“Mr. Chester brought this reporter into his favorite salle de bains. There before us was an exquisitely displayed bathroom fixture containing the finest toilet water I’ve ever seen. My host provided me a dram of the nectar, served in a Baccarat Harcourt Abysee glass.
The first thing you notice is the bouquet, an intriguing mix of Ty-D-Bol and Comet; bold but not overwhelming. This fragrance entices you to enjoy this most alluring of blue toilet water. The aqueous material has a depth to it that is almost indescribable. Your palate is lifted into a heavenly journey of tannins with the palatableness of hexachlorocyclopentadiene, toxaphene and bleach, with a hint of feces and urine.
Where the magic happens. Chester’s secret sauce is New York Times worthy of “All the News That’s Fit to Print.”
“Mr. Chester could see my pleasure with his selection and poured me another glass without having to ask for it. What’s remarkable about this divine concoction is that it adjusts into other exquisite aromas and lusciousness, depending on what else goes into the bowl. His libation should make Chateau Chester a favorite to take the top prize at the upcoming Sommeliers Choice Awards in San Francisco. The elegance and pedigree of Mr. Chester’s refreshment is a reflection on this most well-bred and sophisticated gentlecat.”
If such words were actually written, Chester’s head would expand so much, it might be considered a second moon. I on the other hand would throw up, which might be a blessing, as I could add to the lusciousness of his brew.
At the end of the day, I realized Chester was intoxicated by dictatorial power and toilet water; two things I try to abstain from though I do like power naps and a cold beer.
The Chester Chronicles 