How about those wolves, eh? Predatory, hungry, famished really, but, you know, prepared to wait for the Wolffee Treats to be distributed as an appetizer. And you wonder why we feline types tend to avoid most cross-species friendships (especially the canine), except for the human servant variety, as you yourselves encourage, dudes and friends on the third rock. And, see, technology – always a few bicycle rotations ahead of the homo sapiens brain matter. Never mind.
The thing about sculpture, as my dear mother always says, is that there is always a way to find a worthy scratching post within any work of art. You just have to start somewhere, as black cat Felix is doing, and dig in. Let this be a life lesson for all of us: Start where you are, Use what you have, and Do what you can (by way of appropriate claw-centred activity in the feline example). And thank you to Arthur Ashe and Teddy Roosevelt for that exhortation.
My point, and I do have one, is that most felines avoid pointy things like the proverbial plague. You know, claws, fangs, those sharp bits when the toast is a little burnt – they can really lacerate the tongue and inside cheeks. Also, people who point me the wrong way to the tuna festival are the worst of all and I shall take my revenge – what? no, that wasn’t me, it was my evil twin, Second Last Cat On Mars. Calmer now, pointiness in its place, tuna on the way with Martian Eats: It’s Here or It’s There, or It’s Free.
Monkey business – who knew they could concentrate for so long, so simianly long. I, for one, have always said that there but for the grace of an ancestral divergence, go those pesky humans. Actually, I’ve never said that, but it’s probably true in one dimension or another. Calico Pawn to Feline’s Bishop 4, check.
Here on Mars there isn’t a lot of call for gears – the dust tends to gum them up, but gear sculptures, now there’s a lovely thing. Also, we like our sundowners, although we tend to have them indoors away from the dust and redness, and things that make us testy, like the temperature (too hot, and too cold, really, for a koala bear, let alone a feline bear). Other than that, cheers, friends, and bottoms up, for Cissy Fwoppingham-Smythe is already breathless for her next flagon.
I’d like to be able to say that there are relaxing oceans on Mars, but to tell you the truth, I’m just not certain. There is so much more to explore, and melt. But right now, I’m about to find a delightful deck chair, a tuna martini, and a couple of cubist friends with whom to jibber-jabber until the stars emerge. Goodnight.
When I meditate, or engage in complex and nuanced yoga poses, I am invariably sleeping. Don’t knock it, it works; also, if you knock it, you’ll wake me up, and I will be cranky. Arguably, dreaming of such things is as effective as doing them, and who are we to say we are dreaming or we are real-ing? Hmmm? Now I must return to my weight-lifting – the 250kg snatch and beef jerky, shall we say?