Please, no more “dog saved my life” stories!

I’m tired, tired, tired of them. Every time I go a-book shopping, I inevitably run across a book about how some dog changed some author’s life. Baloney. Not since Underdog has man been saved by a beast whose most notable prior accomplishment was learning to lift a leg and not pee on himself. My cats and I agree on one–make that two things:

  1. Tuna is delicious.
  2. Dogs suck.

Here’s an introduction to a far superior work, in progress, soon to ride atop the wave of Amazon’s animal lovers’ list.

Their names are Syd and Symon. They are cats. Not just ordinary, sleep, eat, and shit-in-a-box cats, mind you. These two fur-balls are gifted heroes, capable of the miraculous. Obama? Einstein? Anne Frank? Copernicus? Mere mortals. My cats are fucking kittigods.

The Story of Syd

Syd, born of Monkey and Diggles, was tragically stolen from his parents when three-weeks old by a rabid coyote. Syd played dead and waited in the jaws of the coyote for the right opportunity. When the evil coyote returned to his den, and held Syd down, preparing to bite off his head, Syd rose up and roundhouse kicked that fucker square in the coyote nuts. Syd then dropped an elbow on the back of his neck, severing his spine, causing immediate death. As Syd ran from the coyote den, he encountered a large Waste Management truck bearing down upon him. Syd rose up on his hind legs, scaring the driver, who drove smack into a home and killed three people. Don’t worry. They were bad people–evil types. They raped turtles and stuff. Seriously. When Syd arrived back home, he noticed his owner (Phil, The Not-As-Great) had fallen asleep with a joint in his hand. This started his La-Z-Boy aflame. Fear not, the magnificent Syd thought quickly on his paws and tossed the closest glass of fluid he could find on the fire. Unfortunately, that fluid was highly-flammable rum. Ah, but, that fireball woke Phil up, as he ran screaming to the guest bathroom and dunked his burning hand in the toilet. All was well. In tribute, Phil has retired the guest toilet from being used for anything other than a drinking bowl for his master, Syd.

The Story of Symon

Symon, also born of Diggles, but whose father may have been Igor (because Diggles was a little slut), was adopted by a pair of inbred hayseeds who lived in a camper near Yuma. They adopted poor Symon because they wanted to cultivate and clip his whiskers to use in creating a poisonous tea they would feed to the unsuspecting folks over at the Our Lady of Huh resting home. When the evil father clipped whiskers from the right side of Symon’s face, it set in motion a series of events (after Symon figured out how to stop running in circles) that would change the course of history. Poor, lop-headed Symon scurried away and hid in the cabinet beneath the rusty sink. There he found substances (well, thank goodness for his background in Chemistry, I tell ya) that he was able to combine and create a bomb, which detonated when one of the inbreds turned on the television. Symon escaped unscathed, except for the missing whiskers, which were destroyed in the explosion, and new ones grew back … even stronger. Symon ran almost 300 miles before showing up on Phil’s doorstep. (Yes, that same Phil guy.) Just so happened that Phil needed a feline chemist to assist with his morning cappuccino, and Syd needed someone’s butt to sniff.

And they all lived happily ever after. Amen. Namaste. Salamalekum-malekumsalamisandwiches. Later.

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.
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