Poor Fred. He just can’t get no respect. He’s tall, wide and handsome (or so he’d tell you, should you dare to doubt it), but the mental and physical midgets profaning his personal space just refuse to pay him the proper due.
Sometimes it’s his own brother Ed who tries to muscle his way onto Fred’s personal perch.
Heck, sometimes it’s his own tail that refuses to obey his regal commands.
But it’s the junior members of the household, the impudent whippersnappers, who gravel him most grievously.
Take Sally (take her please! Fred implores), the sleek little thing with the outsize ego, who as a tiny kitten had the audacity to intrude upon Fred’s very own bookcase eyrie. To this day Fred regards her with disgruntlement (an expression into which his face falls with facile frequency). Still, she rarely pays him much mind, and so he can (mostly) ignore her.
But Schooner! Schooner, the bratty newcomer, the sturdy, spunky, fearless, playful – playful! What horrors lurk within that innocent word for a gentleman of such massive dignity as Fred!
And so it came to pass that, one fine day (or not so fine for one participant, as things turned out), Fred found his afternoon nap in his accustomed place, at the foot of my bed, disrupted by Schooner’s refusal to take a disdainful hint and get lost.
First, Fred tried ignoring the obnoxious twit.
Alas, determined ignoring did nothing. Worse than nothing, for said obnoxious twit had the nerve to get up and walk right by poor Fred! Who was forced, forced I tell you, to defend himself.
Which, as it happens, was not a wise move. (I never said Fred was smart, now, did I?) Schooner, who takes gleeful delight in wrestling with any feline foolish or slowfooted enough to fall into his clutches, promptly went for the headlock.
Some inconclusive punches were thrown – rather less effective on Fred’s part as it’s hard to land accurate blows when one’s eyes are squeezed shut – though Schooner did plant a good one – Pow! Right in the kisser! – on his oversize opponent.
But the bout was soon over, fizzling out in glares and muttered threats on Fred’s part, and ending at last with Schooner, bored, breaking off while Fred subsided into disgruntled and (or so it would seem) slightly embarrassed surrender.
I tell ya, it’s a sad day when a man can’t even take a nap without being harassed by some young punk.
