Some folks believe humanity evolved over millions of years, that we rose from the primordial soup; pulling ourselves up the evolutionary ladder to stand at last proud and strong at the pinnacle of the planet’s food chain.
Others think we are created beings, made in the image of a loving and all-knowing Creator, and that we’re only caretakers of this small, green world, destined in time to move on to other, better planes of existence.
Which of these is true? Personally, dear reader, I think whatever you think, wholeheartedly and without reservation. So there’s no need for angry letters.
Besides, for the purposes of this column, either theory will work. (By the way, I only use the word “theory” to placate those poor misguided fools who don’t think the way you and I do.) The point is, when it comes to Earth-bound vertebrates, we’re pretty much king of the heap, right?
Wrong!
That’s what they want you to think. And when I say “they,” I mean the real rulers of this planet.
See, I’ve come to realize, in the past year or so, that humanity is little more than a slave race, bred and conditioned generation after generation to serve the true Masters of the Earth.
I’m talking, of course, about cats.
Think about it. I know I have been. I look at my cat, Friday Magoo, and can’t help but notice some glaring disparities in our respective lifestyles.
I go to work each day and toil in the editorial vineyards to raise money to put a roof over my (and consequently, his) head, to buy food for myself (and, of course, the cat). I worry about bills, pollution, the ozone layer, melting polar ice caps, the neighborhood my daughter lives in in Detroit, my love life, the IRS, typos and whether I’ll be able to sleep tonight with all these other worries on my mind.
Friday Magoo’s day is very different. It consists mostly of sleeping in sunbeams, killing moths and moles in the back yard, and eating, sometimes the moths and moles.
I feed him, I house him, I brush him, I clean his litter box. I provide him with absolutely everything he wants, needs or desires. I even attend to his drug habit (he has a Keith Richards-like catnip addiction and can’t go a night without getting his nip on).
By way of expressing his gratitude, Friday deposits copious, repulsive hairballs on my expensive, Persian rug. I assume he does this only because he wants to communicate with me but tragically lacks a middle finger.
Between the two of us, it’s obvious who the boss is.
I could rail against my fate, but like the rest of you catnip-serving, litter box-changing, fur-brushing drones out there, I’ve evolved to do what the cats want me to do. Or maybe I was created this way.
Either way, it stinks like a week old litter box.
mtaylor@staffordgroup.com
(616) 548-8273
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