Journal Entry: July 1, 2010

It’s Roderick’s birthday today. He’s sixteen.

Mrs. Smith served scrapple and applesauce for breakfast. She serves the same thing every day. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. All I ever eat is raw chicken livers, so I don’t throw rocks at other people’s culinary choices.

At breakfast, Mr. Smith read aloud from the Beauneville Bugle. Something about a fresh batch of bacon for sale at Uncle Dave’s farm, and a sale on applesauce at Ackerman’s. Aunt Emily’s Vintage Gravenstein, gallon jugs for two dollars.

God, what a bore. I migrated to the living room and napped on the couch.

Roderick’s friends dropped in to deliver birthday greetings. Dickie, Natasha, Katie, Megan, and others I don’t know. Megan was unusually touchy-feely and affectionate with Roderick. I sniffed her -- she’s ovulating. You can smell it a mile away. Roderick can’t smell it because humans have weak noses, and also because he’s a nerd.

In a good way, I mean. 

Megan’s barking up the wrong tree with Roderick. Roderick and Molly are like peas in a pod. Been that way since forever. Megan gave him a copy of Sense and Sensibility. He won’t read it. He only reads books on the history of accounting and shit like that.

Mrs. Smith took me to see Dr. Kindly in the afternoon. All good. I’m 38 inches long from nose to tail, and I tip the scales just north of 18 pounds. Dr. Kindly thought maybe it wouldn’t hurt for me to lose a pound or two. LOL fat chance. Other tomcats take one look at me and shit themselves. I never have to fight for a queen.

I am the Boss Cat in this town.

Doc says the heart and kidneys are fine.

For Roderick’s birthday dinner, Mrs. Smith served roast pork, apple sauce, and little green things. Grandma made a chocolate cake. The Blooms were here, too. I sat under the table and did my poor starving cat routine, with good results: several pieces of tasty roast pork. Margaret tried to give me a little green thing because she's an idiot.

After dinner, Molly sat down at the piano and banged out the fugue from Beethoven’s Hammerklavier. Played it from memory, and didn’t miss a note. Good. I’ve always said that if you can’t play the Hammerklavier correctly, don’t play it at all. Go home and practice, and don’t come back until you’ve nailed it.

While Molly tickled the ivories, Grandma and Mrs. Smith knitted. Grandpa chatted with Mr. Smith and Mr. Bloom. Roderick explained bond pricing to Mary Bloom, who gazed at him doe-eyed. Margaret did her Sudoku. I hung out with Catherine, the love of my life. Yes, I admit it. I have a thing for Catherine. She whispered sweet nothings to me and stroked me just like when I was a kitten. I kneaded and purred. 

When Molly hit that final B-flat major chord, I strolled over to the piano and leaped into her lap. Molly says she doesn’t like cats, so I jump on her just to see her cringe. I wasn’t disappointed.

Around nine o’clock, Catherine gave me a kiss and left with the rest of the folks. I pined for her, then went to bed.

All for now.

Journal Entry: June 29, 2010

This morning, Roderick was in a rush to get to his summer job at the boathouse. Mrs. Smith served a big plate of scrapple and applesauce. He inhaled it in record time and departed.

I had my customary breakfast of raw chicken livers. There was a problem this morning -- my kill was not at room temperature. I spurned it and glared at Mrs. Smith, who apologized and warmed my food with her hands for a few minutes.

You really have to keep the servants on their toes, or they get into bad habits.

With Roderick gone for the day, I was at loose ends. I didn’t want to hang out with Laddie -- please -- so I decided to go visit Mom. She lives with Mrs. Peacock over on Cherry Street. Not far at all.

On the way, I stopped to spy on Natasha and her eunuch kitties. Henry Witherspoon was with her. He was naked, for some reason, and she was penciling in her sketch pad.

Henry Witherspoon is not a eunuch.

Matisse the Siamese gelding spotted me from the second-floor window. He was not happy to see me, but there was nothing he could do. Natasha does not let her dickless cats go outside.

I sprayed the woodpile, just for lulz.

Cutting through Zemlinsky’s yard, I crossed Dogwood Street near the spot where Willie met his demise. Poor little Willie.

I stopped for a moment in the Blooms' back yard. Molly was banging away on the piano, doing her scales. That girl has discipline. She’s a black belt in karate, too. Roderick says Donny Clapper squeezed her ass in the hallway and she floored him. 

The kitty door to Mrs. Peacock’s kitchen was open, so I went inside. In the living room, Mary Bloom sat reading an Elsie Dinsmore story aloud to Mrs. Peacock, who was half asleep on the couch.

Mom woke from her nap and greeted me. She looked great. Mom’s most def a MILF, or perhaps I should say a CILF. This may disturb human readers, but there is no incest taboo among cats. If she weren’t neutered I’d be interested.

I asked Mom if she’s seen Dad lately. She said no. Dad lives with the Fulbrights on Quince Street, on the other side of Main. He’s up in years and has arthritis, and doesn’t like to cross the street. I should go and see him.

On the way home, I stopped again to listen as Molly played the scherzo from Beethoven's Opus 2 #3. Very good. Those triplets in the right hand in the Trio are wicked hard, as they say in the Boston suburbs. I’d try to play them myself if I had fingers.

Too many pianists play the early Beethoven sonatas like they can’t wait to finish and move on to something hard. Molly plays with a leisurely tempo, in the European style, as if she enjoys the music and doesn’t want it to end.

At home, Laddie wanted to tell me all about his day, the high point of which was taking a dump on the berm near the corner of Elm and Fifteenth. I didn’t stick around. 

All for now.

Journal Entry: June 21, 2010

Summer solstice today.

Not much to report. Molly and Natasha came over in the morning and hung out with Roderick. Then they all left for the Mill Pond. Roderick took Laddie with him. 

Roderick never takes me to the Mill Pond. 

Of course, I can go there myself. I can go anywhere in Beauneville if I put a mind to it. Still, it’s the principle of the thing.

On the bright side, at least Laddie was out of the house. Laddie is OK for a dog, but he’s not very bright. Most of the time he just sits there with his tongue hanging out, craving attention.

Dogs are high maintenance.

In the evening, Roderick took Molly to the Summer Solstice dance. I thought about tagging along but decided to sit on the porch with Mr. and Mrs. Smith. They were counting moon bugs.

Mr. Smith prattled on and on about the moon bug life cycle. Their eggs are dormant for nine years, then they all hatch together at the summer solstice, mate once, lay their eggs, then die. 

Kind of a stupid existence, if you think about it.

I caught one. Yeccccch. No wonder they have no natural predators.

Restless, I went to spy on Natasha. The Zemlinskys own the house behind the Smiths, facing Dogwood Avenue. She’s an artist and uses the carriage house as a studio. I can see in the window from the woodpile next to the hedge. 

She had her easel set up and was painting a still life.

Natasha has three cats, all eunuchs. Corot is a large tabby like me, but with no balls. Matisse is a Siamese and Hopper a fat Persian. Completely useless cats. No sign of them tonight.

I returned home. Mr. and Mrs. Smith had gone to bed -- I guess they were bored with counting moon bugs. Roderick and Molly were still out, so I went to sleep on Roderick’s bed.

Sure enough, Roderick woke me up when he went to bed. It never fails. The Smiths bought him a big bed so we could sleep together, but he can’t climb under the covers without poking me with his smelly feet. It’s disgusting.

I got my revenge in the morning by purring in his face.

All for now.

Journal Entry: June 20, 2010

It’s Father’s Day. Mrs. Smith made pancakes and scrapple, which everyone ate with gusto. I had my customary fare of raw chicken livers, served at room temperature.

After breakfast, the Smiths left to visit Grandma and Grandpa. I decided to stay home and nap. Then I went outside and sat on the back porch for a while. Lovely day, really. The big old oak tree looked inviting, so I tried to climb it yet again. Made it about ten feet up, then ran out of gas.

When the Smiths returned Mrs. Smith had some pink and red roses. She put them in a vase while I watched.

The Blooms came to visit in the afternoon, all six of them. Mr. Smith fired up the grill out back and threw on some ribeyes. I waited patiently for some ribeye bits. I was not disappointed.

After dinner, everyone gathered in the living room. I sat with Catherine Bloom, my favorite. She had her stuffed friends, per usual: Mr. Fuzzums the bear, and Miss Kitty. I tried to be polite with them, but they did not reciprocate. 

Catherine hugged me and whispered: “I love you, Harold.” I purred.

Molly sat at the piano and played Beethoven’s Diabelli Variations from memory. Not bad overall, but she missed a note in Variation 24. Shameful shit.

After the impromptu concert, Roderick and Molly went out to the porch. I joined them briefly. They started tickling one another and wound up rolling around in Mr. Smith’s bearberry patch. I went back inside and hung out some more with Catherine.

Honestly, I don’t know whether Roderick and Molly are a number or what. Human courtship is complicated. With cats it’s simple. When a Queen’s in heat, any Tom will do; when she’s not in heat, all the Toms can fuck right off.

All for now.