All Hail, Queen Polly

In this royal court, guess who’s the jester?…

There is a sprawling gap between our pets. The Cat dwells in feudal England. She was born the year the Magna Carta was signed. You can believe if the lesser humans forced a pen in her paw, she’d have rather died than sign a document limiting HER power.

The Puppy is from some planet called Klown K22. My family is experiencing the hazards of introducing a non-native species to an existing environment. The Pup’s attitude is like a new age dudette bent on surfing the next meteor shower while thumbing her nose at conventional society. Think Jackie Kennedy in an I Love Lucy episode. That’s the chaos I’m living.

Communication between the species is wider than a black hole from the Pup’s native territory. The tongue spoken on Klown K22 is called wet and sloppy. Puppy’s a Chatty Cathy doll on amphetamines. There’s not a dry surface under knee level in the house. I work to convince the Pup that humans aren’t rawhide that hasn’t gone through the drying process.

In feline, CAT stands for Creature Attended To by peasants of course. In canine speak, CAT means Cool Action Toy.

Being 798 years old, the Queen’s not as spry as she once was. Her physique resembles a 34DD breast that has succumbed to gravity. No corset can contain her sag.

Activity levels are a cause of contention in our household. The Queen believes hogging the heating vent is aerobic exercise because it raises her body temperature. If catapulting oneself through the stratosphere were a sport, pup would have a contract to hawk athletic apparel. Pup circles the Queen with intentions of getting in a few licks. The Queen strikes with bared teeth thinking her bite contains venom like a cobra.

There is no rest even at rest. One of the animals is content to curl in my lap. The other creature tries to perch on my shoulder like a forty pound parrot. With her head placed on the edge of her boudoir, the Queen takes a respite from the world. Pup tears the stuffing from her bed and rolls around in the green fluff.

The animals’ views also differ on the usage of household items. Puppy thinks blankets, pillows, and shoes are nutritious supplements to her diet. The Queen knows these things are for catching the hairballs she yarks up.

Food is the only aspect in which my pets somewhat agree. Their motto is “keep it coming.” The Cat prefers delicately slivered meat or fish morsels presented in a special dish. Despite an overwhelming mental image sent by the Cat, I still refuse to serve the Queen’s food in an apron and white gloves.

Puppy’s okay with anything within nose reach. Fuzz, rocks, sticks, and some kind of unidentifiable goo from the porch step cross her palate with equal enthusiasm. You’d think toilet paper was beef jerky by the foot the way Pup slurps it up. Puppy chow is for hiding in the couch in case solar flares cause famine.

The other similarity between the species lies in animal by products, fur, regurgitated matter, and poo out the wahzoo.

The pets’ names are a reflection of the chasm I must close before peace reigns in the kingdom. Cat’s name, Polly, is a diminutive form of Mary. The English name means bitter. I’m convinced our Queen has worked with other governments to install policies concerning population control. Polly couldn’t quell the population explosion within her own kingdom. Bitter fits.

The Algonquian people called their enemies “the Mohawk”, meaning man eaters. I consider our Mohawk more a taster of man as opposed to a consumer of man. The Queen doesn’t share my view point. The tension is driving me to drink.

In the interest of averting a beheading, I’ve given Polly and Mohawk their separate kingdoms until the pup acclimates to Earth’s environment. Like many English monarchs, the Queen is having an awful time handing over part of her throne even though she’s experienced sharing power with two former subjects. Polly, Queen of Sots will just have to lick her ego. I’m running low on ale.

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