Pkvcyfzwfmyk/llk

Please ignore the previous line. I’ll get back to it in a few paragraphs. Thank you for your patience.

I am not a cat person. I realize that I could be alienating half of my readership by making such a statement, but in the interest of transparency, the truth must be told. I am a dog guy.

Again, due to the requirements of full disclosure, I must admit that I do not like all dogs. I absolutely am not a fan of little yipping dogs that pretend to be ferocious while hurling high pitched squeaks from beneath sofas and other floor hugging objects of protection. I do, however, enjoy the company of over-grown, slobbering, tail whipping, ball chasing, loyal to a fault, big-baby, “puppies.”

I have had the pleasure of sharing my life with a couple of Great Danes that could pull off teaming up with some Clydesdales to haul a Budweiser beer wagon up the Main Street hill, a German shepherd named Somethin’ (because, when asked what I was going to call him, I said, “I’ll name him something,” and it stuck), and a bouncing black Lab that was reputed to be equal parts black bear and black angus.

But, as previously stated — and stated again for clarity — I am not a cat person.

Getting back to the first line of this piece — “pkvcyfzwfmyk/llk” (again, thank you for your patience) — it was written by my cat. Yes, I wrote “C-A-T.”

I sat down in my favorite recliner, flipped open my laptop, stared at the keyboard, and tried to think of something to write that might be worth reading. Obviously, I pondered the situation just a second and a half too long, because that was when my cat (yes, MY CAT) decided to leap from 20-feet away and stick an Olympic qualifying four point landing in the middle of my keyboard.

“pkvcyfzwfmyk/llk” is the result of four paws trampling all over Mr. Hewlett’s and Mr. Packard’s good work.

Adding insult to injury, once she had completed her tome, she looked at me with a derisive smirk, dismissed me with a swift turn and followed up with a quick flick of her tail in my face. She then exited as if she was expecting me to stand and bow to the queen that she is.

Yes, I said I have a cat -— get over it. She showed up one day, announced that she was interviewing humans for staff positions, and never left.

She arrived on our doorstep as a kitten, perhaps only eight weeks old. I looked at the scrawny, orphaned, ball of fluff and said in my loudest, commanding, and most authoritative voice, “Nope! Ain’t no way! No cats! Not gonna’ happen! No way, no how! Forget it! Don’t even ask!”

That was about a year ago.

Her name is “Frilla”, which is a contraction of French vanilla. Her coat is a creamy beige with swirls of caramel brown. To me, she looks like coffee with a couple of splashes of creamer.

Once a pretentious Starbucks perfectionist suggested that her name should be Café Macchiato and I replied that it wouldn’t matter what her name was.

She wouldn’t answer to it, anyway. She’s a bit stuck up that way.

Don’t get me wrong, the cat is kinda’ okay. I don’t have to feed it, empty the litter box (that was the only part of the residency argument that I actually won), or deal with it in any way, shape or form. The only problem with that is, the danged cat refused to read and sign the terms of the contract. She parades around this house as if she is the queen, everyone else is her subject, and I am the court jester.

I’m thinking about getting a big, slobbering dog with bad breath, flatulence and a penchant for kitty chasing.

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.