We like to think that we regularly welcome our feline overlords, and the cats truly are in charge. We can smile and laugh about it (not too loud, they might hear us), but what if things were really turned around? What would it be like to be a cat’s pet?
I used to be a human supremacist. Of course, that was before the cats took over. Without a doubt, the absolute pinnacle of human achievement was genetically engineering cats for high intelligence and opposable claws. But dang it, I do miss ol’ Abby Tabby purring on my lap as I fed her chunks of tuna, back when cats were cats, and us humans thought we ran the world. She’s long gone, but her big-brained descendants . . . well, the purr’s been bred out of ‘em.
Cats run the world.
And it’s great! I go into a frenzy whenever I see Miss Kittykat — that divine body, perfect black fur, and those blinkless eyes with vertical slits, an alien gaze that pulls you into the deep depths of infinity.
I am touched by God.
And she feeds me too! Well, sometimes. After the race. And oh boy, do I need to win today. My stomach is gurgling.
It’s almost time.
I better loosen up. I do some toe touches and jog in place. I glance over at Figgy, my friend and enemy. He’s wagging his tail in his sleep in his doggy bed on the carpet next to my spot, probably dreaming of winning again. I must beat him this time, I’m just dying for a thick, juicy cheeseburger, I’m so hungry. Miss Kittykat won’t forget me. She just needs her sixteen hours of sleep and an hour of catnip, and then she’ll get around to me and Figgy. We are blessed.
Let’s face it, humans aren’t good at war. We’re slow, clawless, and our teeth are designed for Pop-tarts. Without Figgy and the other genetically-engineered dogs on our side, we’d have lost the war with the cats in weeks. With man’s previous best friend at our side, we held out six months.
Miss Kittykat is my cat lord and best friend. She loves me and takes care of me, and gave me a nice leather collar with spikes and a name tag, Property of Miss Kittykat. Of course, you couldn’t tell she loves me by how she plays with me and Figgy. The whippings, the scaldings, the electrocutions — she’s just playing with us. She requires two thirty-minute pettings every day. Beware stopping, her claws are sharp! We have a lot of good talks during that time. Not verbally, of course, not since the cat lords ripped out our tongues, very quick and mercifully, of course. She just glances at me — yes, the Gaze of God! She can express anything with just a look. She’s so smart.
A cheeseburger would be sooooo good. Where did Miss Kittykat go? Is it time?
Figgy fidgets as he sleeps, no doubt dreaming about our next race. He’s a golden retriever, covered with anti-pooch graffiti from Miss Kittykat’s permanent black marker. He’s fast, but ever since the cats reverse-engineered the stupidity back into dogs, he’s been a dullard, so maybe I’ll win today and finally get to eat. He was much smarter during the cat wars when he defended our home with an Uzi.
Wait — I think I heard Miss Kittykat go into the kitchen. I — I think I heard a click.
IS IT TIME???
There it is — the blaring music of the can opener! Oh boy oh boy oh boy! I leap to my feet as Figgy’s eyes pop open. For a second, he looks confused, then his ears perk up and his eyes go wide.
THE RACE IS ON!!!
My bare feet get great traction on the wooden floor, giving me a quick start. Figgy leaps to his feet, but his nails slide against the wood at first, and I leave him behind. Then it’s down the hall, a sharp right into the living room, and toward the kitchen —
Figgy leaps ahead of me. No way, not again!
I grab his collar. His opposable claws were reverse engineered away, so he can’t grab mine. I thrust him behind me as he bites my hand, but I barely notice as I sprint into the kitchen.
But Figgy is animal-fast, and once again he leaps ahead of me. I race after him, but there’s no way I can beat him, he’s already thrusting his open jaws forward.
I grab his tail — not hard enough to hurt my buddy, of course, just enough to stop him. Figgy yelps and snaps at me, but it’s too late. I leap past him and grab the open can of cheeseburger.
I won! It’s mine, mine, mine!
Miss Kittykat stares down at me from the counter, her gaze saying, “You have won today’s race, my good pet, and so have earned your supper.” She begins licking herself. I take the first bite of my prize, tasting it with what’s left of the base of my tongue. The slightly moldy cheese adds flavor to the juicy rat meat.
Figgy gives me that tilted-head doggy look that says, “Please share!” But did he share with me when he won the last three races? I’m going to enjoy my canned cheeseburger, once I pick the bugs out of it. Thank you, Miss Kittykat!!!
THE END
