Mr. Trump, I want to go home right meow!

P. Katz

Communicated in full as received from a previously unknown blogger who goes by the name of P. Katz.  –MH

Would someone please call animal rescue services? I’ve been locked in a horrible gilded cage since I was kitnapped in my youth. At times I blame myself for this predicament. I was so trusting — so curious. It nearly killed me, that curiosity. I saw what I thought was an odd-looking cat — fluffy, ginger, well-groomed — lying on the head of a human. Was this strange kitten perhaps a relative of mine? I was busy craning my neck around to see if I could find the tail. My own human wasn’t paying attention either. Despite her smile, I could sense her fight-flight-vomit response kicking in as the human with the cat on his head violated her territory and, without even waiting, just put his mouth right onto hers.

And then whoosh, he grabbed me.

Just like that.

Turns out I’m not the only one either. He’s got a menagerie of us. Pussies from everywhere. He just goes up to female humans and grabs us. He says he can do anything and I guess he’s right.

He also says they let him do it, that they just gave us to him. I don’t know, maybe he paid them for some of us. Maybe he sweet-talked his way into getting some. But, not my human. She didn’t like it at all and she would never give me away. Until my capture, she only let people she liked get anywhere near me, and only her very close friends were allowed to pet me.

But here I am, here we all are, locked up in this tower, our eyes squinting from all the surfaces covered in gold that gets painted back on as fast as we can scratch it off. We are underfed and ignored. The human who put us here just spends his time hunting more pussies. (At least I can be thankful that, he doesn’t cut off our tails, unlike a gruesome practice one of his offspring is said to engage in.) The only attention we get is being alternately kicked and squeezed by a human cub who himself is as lonely, confused and starved for affection as we are. The cub’s mother spits and hisses if we go anywhere near her.

I never expected this world to be purrfect, but sometimes it’s more than I can bear. By the waters of Manhattan, I weep! When will my cativity come to an end?

My fellow Americans, I have only nine lives to live and I don’t want any of them to be with Donald Trump. But if worse comes to worst and I never make it out of here, at least know this one thing, and make sure you tell it to the world: that cat on his head — it’s not real.

About the Author
I edit The Times of Israel's Ops & Blogs section, and I also co-host the storytelling live show and podcast WhyWhyWhy! (That needlework in my cover photo is by Yocheved Herschlag Muffs.)
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