Guest Blog by Boris the Cat (Translated by Doris Gallan)
For two months now I’ve been reading over the shoulder of this writer as she’s been yammering about her time caring for we five cats and a dog in Guanajuato, Mexico. Well, I can understand her complaining about Boa—who wouldn’t be bothered having to walk a dog? Why can’t they just walk themselves? I’m always asking.
I’m Boris. You heard about me. There was the Shrimp Incident. That’s the one when the writer was so busy watching the dog watching the cats watching the shrimp, that she tripped over her writing box and it came crashing down on the hard tile floor. Apparently it ruined the picture part of it but she just hooked it up to another picture part and kept writing. That woman just won’t stop.
Oh, you probably also heard that I like to sleep on her head. Well, not just her head. Any head really. Hey, when you humans decide to start looking normal and grow hair all over your bodies I won’t have to sleep on your heads. Sheesh.
My week in Human Hell
Now it’s my turn to tell you how hard I have it with that writer. Last week, she was busy—as usual—tapping that little board with all the letters which she calls writing. Well, the dog was chasing me and I ran up the side of the house like I often do but I must have been going too fast. I made it under the wooden beam but I didn’t duck far enough and scraped my back. No big deal. I’m tough. I can handle it.
Well, wouldn’t you know it? Miss So-Focused-On-Her-Writing-She-Wouldn’t-Notice-If-The-World-Came-To-An-End decided to notice this little scrape. In no time I’m packed off in that plastic jail they call a cat carrier and we’re on the way to the vet. I don’t even have time to ask how they plan to treat my little injury that he’s got me in a reverse Mohawk haircut. Did I tell you I’m a long haired, blond beauty? Well, I was. Now I look like I belong in a Pépé le Pew cartoon (we don’t just watch Speedy Gonzalez cartoons, you know).
The indignity didn’t stop there: twice a day she grabs me by the scruff of the neck and sprays this liquid all along my scrapes. Yeah, yeah, I know it’s for my own good and that it’s to help my injuries heal faster BUT does she have to do it in front of all the other cats?
And then there’s this pill she also has to give me every day. She squashes it into a powder, mixes it into a gooey vitamin gel and rubs that on my nose so that I’ll lick it clean.
So imagine this: a gorgeous, blond long-haired cat reduced to having a one-inch-wide strip of its fur shaved off with the hair on either side of the red skin perpetually flopped-over because of the wet spray. And for the finishing touch: a dollop of brown goop on my nose.
I’m the laughing stock of the household, I tell you. I can’t hold up my head, not even to Boa the dog.
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