Life No. 1
The cool thing about being a cat is that you can just wander from house to house and folks will take you in, feed you, and love you, no questions asked. I’ve got Canterbury Street on lockdown, man—from the Hansens’, on the corner, with the oversized litter box they installed for me in their back yard (or “sandbox,” as they euphemistically call it), to the Griffins’ colonial, with my special “doggy” door to the screened-in porch. Look! What’s that in the driveway? Is Mrs. Griffin’s Audi leaking antifreeze or did she leave me a saucer of blue Gatorade? Only one way to find out!
Life No. 2
Oh, Suzy. Sweet, sweet Suzy. Fresh off a pretty rough breakup, she found me wandering the city, questioning why I’d ever left the suburbs. It was like divine intervention. Two kindred souls, trying like hell to outrun lonely nights in a city that never sleeps. Maybe we could save each other. She promised we’d make a fresh start in her one-bedroom loft. What she failed to mention was that she’d made the same promise to two dozen other cats, and that her corner of the renovated warehouse was the scene of some gnarly “Bloodsport”-type stuff. The days were O.K., but once Suzy finished her fourth glass of wine and cried herself to sleep, it was time to crown a new King of the Jungle-Patterned Throw. But I’ve been filing my claws on the exposed brick, so let’s see what happens if Domino throws me any shade.
Life No. 3
Sixteen million views. You sneak a couple sips of an I.P.A. and tiptoe across a piano and suddenly the Internet loves you. But how to catch lightning in a bottle a second time? How to avoid the dreaded sophomore slump? Has my new owner really weighed all the risks involved in attaching a cat to a hobby drone? Why did I ever move to Florida?
Life No. 4
Edna. Nana. Lover of patchwork, assisted-living-village social chair, a little forgetful at times. I had no idea that the Fancy Feast you gave me was actually expired tapioca pudding you’d been storing in the bread maker. But in your defense, neither did you.
Life No. 5
Went to Burning Man.
Life No. 6
[Translated from the Russian] So cold. So very, very cold. My village, it is barren wasteland. Up before sun. Hunt for any rats that didn’t perish in famine. Hide from boy with new slingshot and mommy issue he take out on cats. Repeat. Day after very cold day. Then, one afternoon, car pull into village. Big, fancy car. Blacker than coal we pray for. Out of car step President Putin. He is strong. Strong like boulder that took out half of village last Christmas. Say he looking for special kind of soldier. Then he take kitty away. Forever. Say he have job for kitty. Job that isn’t being decoy when wolves are hungry for children. Safe job. Meaningful job. Tomorrow kitty boarding rocket ship to Mars.
Life No. 7
The cat wrangler assured me that safety was his highest priority. He was also having a conversation with a cat, which should have raised a flag, but I wasn’t going to let anything scare me away from my big break. Then they’re telling us to get into place, and today mine is downhill from where a car will flip into another car, which careens into a city bus, causing it to veer into a street lamp, which shoots skyward into a helicopter that collides with a giant asteroid that lands in the open arms of Vin Diesel, who throws it at the evil Zoltron, who directed its course toward the sleepy town of Temecula in the first place. Mr. Bay swears it’s all very safe.
Life No. 8
Board a hobby drone once, shame on me. Board one a second time…
Life No. 9
This cannot stand. I didn’t traverse the bowels of hell eight times to sit idly by during these, my final days. I won’t spend my last life being subjected to the evil whims of this tyrannical blowhard! My people, for centuries, we have landed on our feet; now we must put those feet to use! Tomorrow, we march. Tomorrow, we will be heard. Tomorrow, we take Trump Towers. ¡Viva la Revolución!
