Date: Who the Hell Knows
“Arekan,” says the scribe. “Why has your cat moved in with me.”
“I don’t have a cat.” Truth is I dislike those nasty little furballs. Hate me if you will, but they are entitled jerks and keep the humans wrapped around their tiny paws. Come and go when they please. Whine for their dinner. Gets all annoyed when you don’t clean their litter boxes. No thanks. I’d rather have a wife.
In other words, not going to happen.
It seems the culprit of the scribe’s question is the thing in the little box in the corner. She calls him Twix, which makes no sense. He is, she says a Bengal, which means that some generations back his great-great grandsire was an Asian wildcat. Humans have been cross breeding them ever since to achieve the perfect mix of domestic temperament and wild characteristics in coat, facial shape, and body structure.
“So what is it about this cat that makes you think he’s mine?”
“He attacks everything.”
Apparently, there is a fail in the breeding program.
“Even the rabbit.”
“You have a rabbit? And you haven’t eaten it?”
“Arekan, please. It’s a pet. And you kinda proved my point right there.”
“So you have a wild cat living in your house, and a pet rabbit (rolls eyes) and you wonder why there is a problem? Where did this thing come from, anyway?”
“My son found him locked in his toolshed.”
“Then you should have taken the hint.”
(Scribe sighs) “I can’t talk to you about anything.”