Another tense night at 3257 W. Pierce — this time, for reasons completely unrelated to the Cat Cold War. Tonight, something even bigger happened. Something even darker. More sinister. Terrifying even.
We found out that there is a Republican in our midst.
Volde-Floyd, Irish and I called a truce in order to properly celebrate the Democratic National Debate. At 7:55 we gathered in the living room, popcorn popped, Irish and I cuddled up in blankets and Floyd spooning the catnip sheep on the floor nearby (yes, he’s got a drug problem and yes, the intervention is pending). You could feel the excitement in the air; we were all ready for a rousing, intellectual debate about substantive issues like who is more progressive and who respects President Obama more. The cats were especially looking forward to watching the candidates politely disagree with one another while subtly hinting that the other is incompetent.
And then.
Feebee wanders out into the living room, rubs up against the couch and blurts, “Good god. How can you all watch this crap? I could never vote for either of them – they are both terrifying.”
The three of us stare at her, dumbfounded.
“Really. Donald Trump is the only candidate that makes any sense at all.”
Floyd lets the catnip sheep fall from his mouth to the floor and Irish leaps to her feet with a hiss.
“It’s true,” continues Feebee. “He’s the only one who tells the truth — you have to agree that we’ve got to start winning against the Chinese. I mean, winning is important. Don’t you want America to be a winner? And honestly, I have never been a fan of Mexico. It’s too hot and I hate salsa. I say we build the wall.”
Watching her give her speech is like watching bumper boats slowly crash into each other or a remote control car get stuck in a corner. The debate begins, and she listens for a moment, flicking her tail rhythmically against the couch.
Finally she shakes her head with a hiss. “All they do is take our money and tell us what to do. I worked damn hard for that condo in West Town. Do you know how many nights I had to snuggle that tall guy to get that place? And then guess what happens – liberals. I get shipped to the hood — to Humboldt Park — and god knows who that tall guy let have my condo. Now I’m starting back at the bottom, snuggling with that brown-haired girl.”
None of us know what to say. Luckily, we don’t have to say anything. Feebee turns with a huff and heads back toward human number two’s room. As she goes, I catch a glimpse of the tag hanging from her collar.
What we all thought was an ordinary pet tag, is actually a heart-shaped charm adorned with the simple words: Trump 2017.
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