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.