There’s nothing quite like the feeling you get when you cook your own food, get ready to sit down to enjoy said delicious meal with a quality beverage and, out of the corner of your eye, notice your cat (or dog, depending on your pet preference), licking him/herself in the most unflattering position possible. My cat, Max (Latin: Maximus Sparticus Fatticus Felinus) does this frequently, and I have reason to believe it is part of his plan to attempt world domination.
Max is a black and white “tuxedo” who appears to be genetically engineered to weigh at least four tons heavier than an ordinary cat. The funniest part about Max is his tendency to simply jump up into my lap at the weirdest moments possible and, in an impressive display of the cat sport of Competitive Napping, conk out right atop my key…aogiqhjnaldcoxizeslzdfcv…yeah, you get the idea. The crazy part to all this is, despite his impressive build and muscular physique, Max is still a gentle giant. He meows like crazy when I’m around, though I’m fairly convinced this is a ruse. Through the magic of the internet, I have come across this information which links Max’s behaviors to cat plots to take over the world.
Of course, this is merely a simulation. Pinky is far less capable of world domination than Max, and the Brain is much more like my other cat, Rex, who suffers the bizarre split gender and personality disorder of being a female cat who thinks she’s a male dog. Yet, despite her low-pitched bark, Rex is clearly inferior in the domination department, as Max has proven, time and again, that he is more than capable of delivering a very pacificying purr which can render just about any person, including most politicians, susceptible to a state of complete relaxation and sleep, upon which Max will, according to a good friend of mine, attempt to work the can opener and, if successfully, will proceed to slice us all to ribbons using his mighty claws.
Now, knowing Max, I highly doubt he will actually stoop to the level of clawing anything. In his case, I believe that he will meow so much that, at some point, he will locate a pitch which causes instantaneous paralysis and mass breakage of fragile objects, then proceed to pass so much gas in a confined space that a single spark from plugged in appliance will sent off a reaction which could annihilate at least half of metro Atlanta. You heard it here first; Max is the Next-Generation Fuel Air Explosive.
His strategic value cannot be understated. Max has demonstrated a talent for releasing noxious fumes which, upon inhaling, can render any person vomiting within seconds. If Kim Jong Un really wants to do in the United States, he may end up catnapping Max and, using a crack team of research scientists and over-the-top public relations experts, the Dear Leader – A Trump Enterprises Production, may figure out how to manufacture a digestive system which can take North Korean food and, through the wonder of science, make Max’s farts even deadlier. That level of stink, when mated to an ICBM, can rain down the single most dangerous weapon the world has ever seen: the Flaming Death Fart.
I love Max, and I know he loves me. When we are together, we are inseparable, and I only know of only thing which can rip us apart; the sound of the food bag opening. Then again, he also runs to the water bowl when the other cats are done drinking, and enjoys sitting atop the water heater and meowing at anything and everything, so what the hell do I really know?