Grand Titles

I'm certainly one for grand titles. If only "cat-sitter" or "book boxer" garnered the respect deserved, I would be swimming in the limelight. People would flock to me and ask for advice on whether or not Friskies Salmon Dinner is appropriate for a Friday brunch, or if White Tuna Feast wouldn't just taste a tad better if served in a blue bowl. As for my book boxing cult... well, lessons on how to combine hardbacks with paperbacks, first editions amongst reference titles, perhaps a lecture on Kant, how to really lift with the legs, and obviously a course on organizing cookbooks! People can be so short-sighted.

Two surveyors arrived today. Friendly chaps - although uninterested in a coffee. But there is a grand title for you, "surveyor". Just think! Peter the Great with his enormous leg bent at the knee, foot based on a stump, sword pointing before the Neva, "this shall be the imperial capital". Or a young Washington out in the wilderness protecting the natives from the land-hungry French... hmm... I think I read a rather unrealistic biography of Washington (W.Irving, perhaps). Anyway, "surveyor" is a grand title indeed. I wonder how it sounds in Italian? "ispettore"- not bad. Scusi, Signore ispettore? Si? Caffe? Si.

Bubba and I had a chat last night. A brief chat, I should add. Bubba isn't one for sitting still. Apparently he was slightly off put by my description of him as an existentialist. I assured him that it was simply an assumption and that he was clearly too sophisticated a feline to fall into any philosophical category. He humphed, or prrrrumphed, rather, and turned his tail. I flashed a deadly look at my female feline companion, for it was surely her who told him. She likewise turned her tail leaving me with nothing but an empty box of Canadian Mist.

A difficult moment.

I then slowly left the main room, avoiding eye contact with my portraited companions (keeping in mind Simpson's fate) and headed down a hallway. Just before my second left turn I was struck on the side of the head by a knee at almost full force. A most remarkably hard knee, I might add. After recovering from the initial shock - and pain - I turned indignantly to my right only to find the knee firmly in place and its possessor attempting a look of quiet innocent repose. I stared forcefully into her face, but found no sign of movement, guilt, or amusement. We remained locked into our positions for a considerable amount of time, neither moving, neither retreating, neither breathing. It wasn't until my female feline companion inquired into my activity, or more precisely, non-activity, that I inhaled and with a recently picked up, prrrrrumph, marched off.

I do hope Bubba hasn't declared war. How some creatures loath labels...