While 9 out of 10 cats prefer to stay out of the way when centaurs are stomping around (innocent tails and all that), the other 14 have no issues with them at all. In fact, felines and centaurs tend to group together to gossip about the latest social media mythological trends over lattes and ceviche at every opportunity. Prove me wrong, go on.
When I was but a wee kitten, my parents and overly competitive sibling and I would travel into the hill country to visit Mama’s sister, Beck From Jupiter, and her husband, Lomas (we never worked out where he was from, lovely head of fur, though).
There I would play in the yard with my overly competitive sibling while the adults got on with their plans to rule the cosmos. He was older than me, OCS was, and could be relied upon to initiate ridiculous games and quizzes, such as, ‘How full is that water tank?’ Anxious to please, and win, I would spend most of the day tap-tap-tapping at the water tank with my tiny, ineffectual little knuckles (yes, of course, cats have knuckles, they’re just well hidden) and asking, ‘Is that it? Is that it?’ of my OCS who, of course, always replied, ‘No, it is not, young Last. Keep tapping,’ as he sashayed around the fenceline in search of, shall we say, playful lizards.
It was a source of persistent curiosity to my mother that, at the end of these idyllic sessions on the hill, I would be completely incapable of holding the tidbits of river trout Mama handed over to my OCS and me in the back seat. My bruised knuckles would refuse to co-operate, and eventually, after much meowing and consideration, she would haul me into the front seat and onto her lap where she’d paw-feed me the teeny morsels.
Needless to say, my OCS in the back seat all alone was rather livid with this outcome, but was I devoid of a master plan just because I was younger, tinier, adorable-er, bruised-er? No, gentle reader, no, I was not.
Did you know that alleyways really are quite the thing nowadays? Even here on Mars. They are. Formerly places my old friend, Top Cat, and his pals called home, they’ve been given the fad-on-a-stick treatment and prospered mightily.
I don’t know about you, dear reader, but I like my tuna bagels in a nice tea-room with delicate crockery and catnip on tap. I’ve done my time on the mean streets of the third and fourth rocks, and I like the friendly salons, heavens, I like Gertrude Stein and Alice B Toklas. What I really, really like is a bowl of plain ice-cream with a happy drizzle of genuine Canadian Maple Syrup, preferably served by Prime Minister Justin Trudeau in his very nice suit.
Remember when your mother made boiled fruit cake for Christmas? Perhaps she still does. And my lovely mother, Mrs On Mars, was, and is, a dab paw at producing the most delicious of boiled tuna fruit cakes for all of the wee Martians in the neighbourhood. A little red-dusty, but delicious, and Mars-ish if not more-ish.
As for St. Olaf and Meerecatt Meallworme, they’ve come to an arrangement: a block-buster straight-to-video mega-classic misinterpreted epic fail called Jaws, Paws, Claws, Bores, and Laws, and Another Bloody War: The Umpire Strikes Back. Look for it at your local streaming-eyes online time-waster, or not.