Some old aspects of the cat remain while new attitudes slowly appear. Looking at Titan’s russet accents, I am reminded of the Boober’s sable-brown fur. And way back East, where I imagine Titan might hail from, as far back as Romania where the Strigoi and Communist generals are the scourge of the people, bastards would kill for such a luxurious coat.
There’s a bit of Bukowski in him too, as he ambles over to the futon to cuddle and rub his chin on our face, smearing cat food all over and leaving streaks of fish flavored saliva with his slobbering kisses, hissing when the petting gets too close to his nubby tail, snapping unconvincingly.
Jenny and Tito came in tonight for a supervised visit, while the old coot watched from the bed, moaning and hissing softly in annoyance. They roamed around at a safe distance but still confident that Titanescu’s armored divisions were long sold to African or Middle-Eastern clients at a discount, and that his blunted incisors couldn’t quite sink into their necks. They knew and he knew.
The world has changed and continues to…