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From: Peter Langston <psl>
Date: Fri, 20 Aug 99 10:18:01 -0700
Subject: Two Cats
Forwarded-by: Keith Sullivan <KSullivan@worldnet.att.net>
CONVERSATION WITH FREDDIE
The other day I was complaining that I had gained a few pounds. I quipped
"that I could feel gravity tugging at me."
My large gray cat, Freddie, overheard my whining and corrected me by saying,
"Technically, Scott, gravity doesn't tug on you. Einstein saw gravity as
the bending of space around dense objects."
"Really?" I asked, more to humor him than because I was interested.
Freddie continued, "But I've developed another theory."
"Let's hear it, fuzzy," I said. (He hates it when I call him that. But I
wasn't too keen on being called a dense object, either.)
Freddie then went on to explain how the universe was formed in a big bang.
All matter expanded outward -- as most scientists agree -- but in addition
(and this was Freddie's twist) all matter was rapidly increasing in size.
According to Freddie, nobody notices that everything is getting bigger
because all our measuring devices and frames of reference are growing at
the same rate. The only noticeable effect of everything growing is the
illusion of gravity.
"For example," Freddie continued, "If you leap in the air, at first the
distance between you and the earth increases."
"Duh," I countered.
Freddie ignored my witticism and continued, "But while you're in the air,
the earth gets bigger, and you get bigger, and the Gravity is just an
illusion in an ever growing universe."
This blew me away. I sat in stunned silence. It was a full minute before
I could talk again.
"Freddie," I said. "Do you realize the enormous economic potential we have
"I do," he said, somewhat smugly.
So I sold Freddie to the circus for $500. You don't find a talking cat that
often, and when you do, you don't want to waste it.
H Coleman <HColeman@micron.com>
ALPHA Mailing List <email@example.com>
by P.S. Wall (Off the Wall), July 18, 1999
Along with French, Italian and a smidgen of German, Sweetie speaks Cat. I
suspect he picked it up from the woman he dated before me. And along those
lines, he also speaks fluent Dog.
"Aw wite my widdle kiddy," Dr. Dan says, lifting one of Cat's chins, "whets
have a widdle wook at you."
Cocking his fuzzy head, Cat rolls his eyes in my direction.
"There's a vet on every block," Sweetie translates into my ear, "and you
pick Elmer Fudd?"
Unless a rabid rabbit somehow finds its way onto our sofa, Cat's odds of
catching a disease are right up there with Sweetie catching Michelle
Pfeiffer. Still, I never rest easy until Dr. Dan has given him a perfect
bill of health -- the cat, that is.
After probing every orifice, Dr. Dan opens his secret drawer of pain and
pulls out the hypodermic. Holding it in the air, he gives it a little
"This won't hurt a bit," Dr. Dan coos as he moves in on Cat with the 2-inch
Flying straight up, Cat perches on top of my head like a 22-pound parrot.
"He doesn't like needles," Sweetie translates, as he plays the drum solo
from "In-a-gadda-da-vita" with a couple of tongue depressors.
Two shots later, Cat's doing great, but I look like someone ran over me with
a Singer sewing machine.
About this time, Dr. Dan's intern arrives with a handful of pills. Taking
one look at her, Cat lets out a squawl.
"In your dreams," Sweetie translates, eyes closed, head bobbing and clanging
the Q-tip decanter like a cymbal.
Clamping his little cat lips together, Cat sets his teeth and braids his
whiskers. Atom Ant couldn't pass through those lips.
After the crowbar fails, Dr. Dan gives the intern a somber nod.
Disappearing into the room of torture, she returns with what looks like a
tiny commode plunger on the end of a harpoon.
Cat's eyes get the size of full saucers.
"This can't be good," Sweetie translates.
Legs spread and harpoon raised over her shoulder, the intern takes aim.
Dr. Dan pinches Cat's nose, and the second Cat comes up for air, the intern
crams the pill plunger in up to her elbow.
Quickly bending down, Dr. Dan and the intern watch Cat's mouth to make sure
he doesn't spit the pill out. Meanwhile, Sweetie and I tilt our heads
toward Cat's other end to see if she shoved it out his back door.
"Well," Dr. Dan says, peeling off his rubber gloves, "if he'd drop a few
pounds, I'd say Cat has nine lives ahead of him."
Eyes narrowed, Cat stares at the blubbery roll hanging over Dr. Dan's belt.
"He's speechless," Sweetie translates.
As we're standing at the register paying the bill, a woman is dragged across
the room by her drooling Doberman.
"Oh!" she cries, as the Doberman rams Cat's cage and sends it skidding
across the room, "Fang wants to see the fat kitty!"
Hissing, spitting and fur flying like he's possessed, Cat levitates his cage
a good foot off the floor.
"Don't worry," the woman chirps, as Fang rips a chunk out of Cat's cage with
his teeth, and spits it out the side of his mouth, "Fang isn't afraid of
"SIT!" I scream, and the woman immediately drops into a chair.
While Dr. Dan and the intern haul Fang off barking and snarling, Sweetie
and I rush to check on Cat. Back arched and fur standing straight up, his
eyes are glazed and he's developed a slight tic.
"Well?" I whisper.
"One down," Sweetie translates, "and eight to go."
Copyright 1999 P.S. Wall. All rights reserved.
© 1999 Peter Langston