by Ronnie Burton
(Guest blogger Veronica “Ronnie” Burton is a six-year-old American house cat from rural South Central Kansas.)
I’m writing this as an exercise in writing cause I know it will never get used.
It’s offered to Kevin Burton for Page 7, but I’m going to fly a little too close to the truth and he won’t be able to handle it.
Maybe I’ll send it to Reader’s Digest.
I’ve seen that blessed Page 7 spreadsheet, upcoming stories, this week, future. Don’t see my name on it.
So I’ve been here with the Burtons maybe two months. Not a bad way to go. Kev and Jeannette, they like cats, sought us out. I say us because my roommate Gabbie also got the gig. A girl could do worse.
Now I’ve got as good a sense of humor as the next cat. I can handle a barb now and then, give as good as I get if I say so myself.
I’m getting just a little bit weary though, of the fat jokes. Fat cat, eats everything in sight, whatever.
Like Wednesday, he runs this Feline Olympics thing (“Felines Compete In Quarantine Olympics,” Feb. 9) and it’s “Oh, we can’t play Yahtzee because Ronnie would eat the dice.”
Before it was “keep Ronnie out of the garage because she’s the same size and color as the car and I might get them mixed up.” (“New Kitties Alter Household Routine,” Jan. 14).
That’s just a couple of them. This stuff is constant, like a drip, drip, drip.
Who needs that kind of aggravation?
Look, I like to eat. Is that a sin? Is that unusual? Are you reading this blog, in your chair, with a coffee and perhaps a nice pastry?
Let’s say you eat two pastries. Is that a black mark against your name to be trumpeted all around the world?
Maybe I do spend a little time in front of the refrigerator. I like the rug. It’s a nice rug, no? It’s warm, kind of soft.
Maybe I don’t like to waste food. He’s always harping on that, you know?
Here’s the truth of it. We went for a nice car ride, to the vet. This nice woman weighed me in at 10.2 pounds. Miss she-devil Gabbie weighs 6.4 pounds. There’s not all that much difference between us.
But you’d never know that to hear him talk, Mr. Page 7.
And in-ci-dently, this guy. You know this guy could put down the fork every once in a while himself. Know what I mean? He’s not exactly in fighting trim.
Ask him how much he weighs, see if he’s still an “unblinking champion of the truth.”
His favorite hobby, besides slandering me, is pork chops.
So let me know when this guy becomes a model and gets an underwear ad, and I’ll write my second blog post. It’ll be a Page 7 exclusive.
Until such time, I don’t need any more fat jokes, no more eats like a pig jokes.
Now, here’s my educational contribution, so that certain bloggers and others will know who really is a big cat.
I found a story about the Maine Coon cats. The story is by Emerald Pellot and it’s a gem. Published by Yahoo News Feb. 2.
The story features “Kefir,” a two year old cat who lives in Russia.
A kefir is a popular traditional drink in Russia, just so you know.
Anyway, this Kefir weighs 26.5 pounds and is still growing! This load gets mistaken for a dog, all the time!
“It’s funny how others react when they see the cat because it is huge. Many people think that it’s a dog at first,” said Yuliva Minina, Kefir’s benefactor.
(You thought maybe I was going to write Kefir’s “owner”? Please.)
“It’s normal for Maine Coons to keep growing up until they are three years old,” Minina said.
The story says the cat is gentle but sheds a lot. Blah, blah, whatever. I’m talking about this cat weighs 26 pounds I’m ten pounds and this genius can’t distinguish me from the car?
I’m not that big. I am big boned like my mother before me. I carry it well.
Forgive my tone, I’m a little worked up here.
One more thing. You know, when the litter box begins to take on the look of raisin bran, hello, it may be time to change it. Just sayin’.
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