The question of who the pet is?

Semi Feral Kittens

Apologies

      It is with the greatest of admiration and indulgences that before I bequeath my hypothesis unto the good citizens of the great globe of God's creation, I remit an apology. I, being of good character and the highest attainable acumen a man may possess, offer, in accordance with my humble nature, an apology. 

    Due to a certain error in sophistication, upon revealing the monkey was of a higher intelligence than my benefactors, my companions became somewhat remiss. At one instant I had to make a calculated withdrawal to avoid harm to my person. An oversight in judgment I dare not repeat. So, with utmost admiration for the behooves of my address, I am only revealing an observation of habit. Not an oversight in character or nature by any whom this will befell.

    I have only the question of,

”Who is really the pet?”

    No, I am not referring to the wretched monkey that haunts my slumber, and exacerbates my wakening. But the small, somewhat wrongly identified as domesticated, breed, or breeds, of feline, that I have so numerously witnessed patrolling the grasses and wooded areas of many colonized and seemingly civilized areas I have frequented.

    I suspect an intelligence at work here gentlemen. Something is indeed amiss. A plan has been installed into the minds of what seem to be gentle and good folk. Perhaps not of my intelligence but of good character all the same. I beseech you to help me help them.

    These poor deluded souls have been deceived. Outwitted and befuddled by a feline. They have the misunderstanding that these felines in question are some sort of domesticated creature. A “PET” if you will. Though on a closer examination, should they care to examine this themselves, it was revealed the feline shows not one characteristic of being a companion, or pet, to anyone. There is barely any notice of even the most basic of domestication qualities. 

       Let’s examine my favorite of household auditions, the great and wonderful Canis. They are masters of presenting themselves as domesticated, or a pet. On the day that such need arises the faithful Canis can be counted on to defend hearth and home, as could all members of the household.

   The feline exhibits none of this. They are simply returning to the most accessible place to rid itself of base needs, more than any other, hunger. To put it in terms of the local populace. 

 

“They show up to eat.”

 

Vagabonds!

   The supposed owners of their beloved tricksters have been lulled into thinking the feline might actually have concerns regarding their absence. 

 

     I witnessed none of this. When I tried, out of concern for the well-being of these indulgences, I was immediately shunned as being feline anathema. 

   To which I addressed the feline had no distinction in how I viewed it. I was equally wrong in my efforts to persuade. 

   I felt the dark imminent demise of the monkey creeping in. I know that creature is involved in this lunacy. Somehow.

    Blast that creature. 

As I was saying. 

   The point that seemed to cause the most distress to me, by now advocates of my demise, was that it was in fact “THEY” who had been domesticated. It was “THEY” who are the pet.

    Silence came over the entire congregation.

   It was most unsettling. But a climate I have grown accustomed to. It’s the climate of truth coming into being. Predominating to the surface of minds that had until now laid dormant. And I was at its apex.

   I have come to know this area as a second home. Remarkably, and still misunderstood by my insights, as the one I scuttle from most frequently.

    Not this time. THIS time I will be chivalrous and kind. I will explain it as to a child. A nurturing and caring mentor, to guide them to the truth. 

  If only, I had come to this awareness prior to its assault.

    The authenticity of my debacle has to be recognized for the merit of its own. I am truly a man ahead of his time. One day, the genius which resides between my temples will be recognized. Then, then I will rest easy in the knowledge that unwisdom has befallen my intellect.

    To which I began my arguments finer points as such.

    "The felines spend most of their days gallivanting through the grasses. As if the natural world itself was somehow beholden to their will. If, in fact, the felines have such desires."

    " They sleep when and where they want. No concern for property or ownership by their human attendants. They simply “Roam at will.”"

    Not one solitude Canis has such leisure. The Canis is bound by home and hearth as any retainer should be. And make it seem that they are even quite fond of the behavior.

    Not the feline.

    It is my observation that the feline is incapable of emitting emotion from the workings of the face. Empty, blank, stare. Though I must inquire about the presumption of some thought at work. Yet no description of it can be put forth.

    Once again, the Canis is quite the opposite. What Canis does not show how eminently filled with joy the creature has become upon viewing those it holds in great esteem. The only reward requested or desired is a simple phrase.

 “Good Boy.”

  Indeed, it is. Indeed.

    I have also observed these wild cattus have been given something akin to a name. Though I dare not speculate as to the reason for this endeavor. Certainly, the feline has no use of its “name”. Nor do they ever acknowledge it. It is simply viewed as more verbal awkwardness from its human underlings. Occasionally they will make a gesture to sign they hear your sound but make no recognition of its meaning.

  Once again, the faithful Canis need only here that defining set of syllables strung together into what “IS” identified by him as “HIS” name.

“Come Cassius”. And towards his master he ran. 

“Good Boy!” again.

Indeed Mr. Canus, good indeed.

    It was during this soliloquy that I began to witness a token of discernment from my gallery.  

    “Yes, they are engendered to see the irradiation.”

    The feline has become brandished as the trickster he is.

. . . .

I was wrong.

. . . . 

 

I persevered forward without regard for my well-being. I was not going to lose another battle to yet another creature in a phylum beneath me. 

    To surmise my argument. The feline does not recognize its home, does not recognize its master, does not recognize its name, and quite frankly, simply does as it pleases. To which its presumed owner is EXPECTED to do all of this for the creature. In return it offers to let you “pet it” when the creature so chooses.

     It is on the basis of all this evidence that I must in good conscience inform the proponents of my debate, that it is not the feline who is the pet.

“It is you who are the pet, good people of grandiose character.”

   You are perhaps correct in a “sense” of the word pet. No one can deny that you do show special reverence for these felines. 

   It does not, however, show any signs of being a domesticated breed. Though it has been proven by some high degree of merit, you have been domesticated by " it".

   “I will, as it may behoove some of my congregation, that these felines have on some occasion, entered the dwellings of the so-called owner. As I am in no way considered a guest of any concern, I cannot attest to the happenings in these times. Perhaps the feline becomes more benevolent in private and attempts to assume the mantle of “PET”.

   Though in my mind I knew quite well this is when the malicious creature was spinning its tale and bewitching the judgment of the populace.

"This, my good sirs, is where the trickster applies his craft. This is when the intelligence is revealed."

   

 

 

I awoke sometime later.

   I am unaware of where the first blow befell me. They were so numerous in conjecture that even my wits were deluded. Luckily the mob had returned to its domicile prior to my awakening.

    Perhaps it is better that fate intervenes when it does. My argument was by no means at its end. I was approaching the beginnings of how I had watched tirelessly at one feline attempt to disprove the very definition of insanity. "To repeat the same action only to expect a different outcome.”

    I witnessed one particular cattus retire below the very same oak tree. Day after day. It was relentless in its pursuit. A pursuit I myself have not had the mishap to endure. Other than to play witness of the Catus.

   The feline was attempting to arrest a monkey. Though it was a futile effort the feline remained quite posteritous in its delusion. The monkey is clearly more intelligent.

   The monkey, gentlemen, had presumed it was a sort of distraction, or game of chance. One the monkey was quite sure was impossible for itself to capitulate. And did quite well at proving it.

    Day after day this feline would surrender itself to the same position as the day before. Its gaze is always fixed upon the monkey. Waiting to pounce and arrest the would-be sufferer.    Its attempts were all but ostentatious.  Not once was triumph within the remotest embrasure of the cattus. 

   It was by the very formalization "Insanity."

   To the cattus’ acclamation, I must bring to forth that this is the utmost of intelligent monkeys and had deluded the benediction inhabitants into thinking it was another creature.

The one called Squirrel.

    It is of further inquiry that the feline has also been lulled into a neurosis by the monkey. I myself can attest to this. And believe I have done so on many folios.

     I have been divulging in my intent and character. Only to be misconceived at every juncture concerning this Monkey and by proxy all other creatures on this greatest globe of Gods’ creation in attendance of this creature.

 

    What a curse it is to be gifted with such a high intelligence only to be placed in the wrong period of the millennium. I am in good company as it were.

    One day gentlemen, One day. 

   We shall have a world free of ignorance.

And free of that damn MONKEY!

 

The pursuit continues . . .