Welcome another guest blogger to Alter the Course – Wright Forbucks. My man Wright is a humorist extraordinaire and author of Billy Grist and the Walking Man. His epiphany hits close to home for me, as it reveals why my mini-dachshund pisses me off on a regular basis. Enjoy!
My tweep Greg asked me to do a guest post on his ultra funny blog, AlterTheCourse.com. I love Greg’s humor, so I was flattered. I didn’t know there was a funny person in Wisconsin. I remain shocked. I believe my instructions were to share an epiphany. Lately I’ve had to make money to pay for these things called children, so my capacity for insight has been limited. But, the other day I had an epiphany worth sharing. It’s not relativity, but it’s close. It happened after the family cat taught me a lesson.
My epiphany is animals (especially cats) are smarter than people.
“No way!” You say? Think about it. There is plenty of evidence. Have you ever seen a deer walk into a school brandishing a semi-automatic weapon? Have you ever seen a dog text while driving? Have you ever seen a goldfish squander a paycheck on lottery tickets? Not me. In addition, I’ve never read a single story about a rabbit running a Ponzi scheme, or a beaver sexting a pic of his pelt. Further, after an extensive Google search, I can reliably report there is no evidence that chipmunks are organizing their resources to build a nuclear weapon. To me, it’s obvious. Animals are simply smarter than people. Sure they eat each other, but it’s only because they’re hungry, and haven’t learned how to apply for food stamps, yet.
The specific event that triggered my epiphany happened last week after I returned from Cape Cod with my family. We had taken a four-day vacation. Normally, our cat, Gigi, would have gone to the Cape with us. But, we brought a friend, so there was no room in our car and we refused to do a Mitt Romney by strapping Gigi to the roof rack. Ultimately, being good pet owners, we explained the situation to Gigi. We then put ten pounds of cat food out, set the central air to 72F, and left the 24-Hour Mouse Channel on our the large screen TV.
All the niceness didn’t matter. When we returned Gigi was angry. In fact, she had left goodies in every corner of our house, mostly shit and mangled mice. Plus, somehow she put a bunny head in our bed.
Some background. Gigi ended up in our house because I married a woman who forgot kittens become cats. Gigi was a stray, so she knows how to survive. Her specialty is playing cute for food. Her goal is to get on your lap so she can emit her special purr that subliminally repeats the word ‘tuna.’
Everyone loves Gigi, but me, for I’m on to her act. For years she has been trying to isolate me from my family by vying for their limited affection. She particularly likes tripping me, so I’ll swear at her causing my family to rise in unison to her defense. She knows I know what she is doing, but I always let it slide, confident that Gigi is nothing more than a pathetic cat.
The exact moment of my epiphany was eight o’clock in the morning, the day after we returned from Cape Cod. I was in bed with my wife. When I awoke Gigi was six inches from my nose. She was staring at me. And, I smelled something terrible.
After gathering my senses I suddenly realized Gigi had shit on our brand new white comforter. And it wasn’t a normal shit. Gigi had dragged her ass across our puffy blanket in an apparent attempt to shit-write the words ‘Helter Skelter!’ or ‘Redrum!’
I was ecstatic. My opportunity had arrived to euthanize my long-standing nemesis.
My wife freaks out if I wear shoes in the house. So, I was convinced shit on her brand new white comforter would make her go postal.
“Honey,” I yelled. “Gigi has shit on the new comforter. Look!”
My wife rolled over and woke up. She looked at the mess and her face went red.
“Look!” I said. “Look! Look what Gigi the cat has done!”
Gigi was present. She looked at me. I detected a smile.
“Oh my god!” my poor wife finally yelled. “Gigi must be sick!”
I was shocked.
If I shit on the bed, even if I was terminally ill, my wife would have executed me or at least hit me with a frying pan, but Gigi the cat can ass-draw graffiti on our brand new white comforter and extract sympathy.
I was speechless.
Gigi climbed on to my wife’s lap and purred.
“Poor, Gigi.” My wife said as she patted her cat.
Gigi looked at me long and slow, and then snickered. I swear to God.
I had been had.
Later that day, after a few cold ones, it hit me, my epiphany.
Animals are smarter than people.