i was consulting with my sister’s cats about the sad story of mr toad/mr moth. my sister’s cat was born in germany, and spent her whole life in the confines of an apartment.
she said to me, some in german some in english, that in her country, cats do not do such awful things.
i asked her what cats in germany do.
she said that they prefer to sculpt their victims into flowers. the timing has to be just right, or else the bubble will burst open too soon into a bloom, and die in the frost.
and, because this is germany, each breed of cat is assigned a different flower. there is no competition. there is only punishment to those that neglect their duties. she was taken from her mother too soon to learn the true art. she and massimo try their best in the apartment, carefully measuring their blows against spider, lizard, and bug. they’re trying to make peonies, because that is what their mother taught them.
sometimes, they practice on paper towels or kleenex, trying to get that perfect rumpled puff of the peony just right.
i can only wonder what other mysteries of nature exist if we only bother to ask.
at the end of our conversation, diva was quite insistent upon one subject, however.
“where’s my breakfast, you bastard?!”