By Mike Ryan |
By Mike Ryan |
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I want the cat’s job. At the advanced age of 44, I have pondered relentlessly on the direction, or lack thereof my life has taken. It may be what they call a mid-life crisis, but it is a crisis of epic proportions. I have been attempting a career in music for what seems like an eternity, with no discernable success. I have recently undertaken another seemingly impossible attempt; which is making a living as a writer. No luck. After pouring over the job want ads for the last few days, searching for any clue available on a new career, I hit on it all by myself. I want the cat’s job.
I think I could excel in the position of the Ryan families’ cat. Allow me to list my qualifications. Though our cat is a female, due to today’s sex discrimination laws, that should not disqualify me. Now, I realize she had to be fixed to qualify for the position. I have not been fixed, but being 44 and married: my carousing tendencies have been curtailed sufficiently. I also realize the job title is listed as “pet’, but living as the only male in an otherwise all-female household; I already fill that need. The cat sleeps all day and goes out to play all night. After many years of being a musician, this is one of the areas where I excel. When she is awake during the daytime hours, she lays around in the back yard, watching the grass grow. Been there, done that. She feeds and bathes herself. I could do that if required. She catches bugs and moths. Since, as I mentioned, I am the only male in our household; that has already been my job for years. We enjoy the cat for entertainment purposes, like when she acts crazy or does stupid things. I’ve got her there too (see above statement about being the only male). |
Now that I have listed the things I can to as well as the cat, let me show you the reasons I feel I am better suited for the job. I don’t need a litter box; I’m housebroken. I don’t shed. Okay, we’re about even on this one. She coats the couch with her hair, while I fill the bathtub drain with what’s left of mine. I don’t need my nails trimmed. I’m perfectly capable of biting them off myself. When I am sick or injured, I don’t put up a fight about going to the doctor. All right, we’re even on that one too. I don’t bite (unless asked) and since I keep my nails well bitten off, I don’t scratch. When you rub my belly I can purr even louder than the cat, and also verbalize my satisfaction, while returning the favor. I can open the door to go out all by myself, and when I take out the trash, I don’t spread it all over the street. I don’t freak out and run away at the sound of the vacuum cleaner; okay yes I do, but the can opener doesn’t amaze me anymore. I come when called and usually do as I ‘m told. I rarely ignore the other members of the family, except during football season, and only occasionally do I run away when company arrives. I’ve already had all my shots and can take pills without being forced. Well, you may have to force me to take my pills, but at least you don’t have to stick your fingers down my throat. I don’t scratch up the furniture or cough up hairballs, and it’s been a long time since I peed on the rug.
I feel my qualifications make me the top candidate for the position. Now that I have found what I want to do with my life, I just have to figure out a way to get paid for it. Here we go again. Editors
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