The guilty undertaker cries,
the lonesome organ grinder sighs;
the silver saxophones say I should refuse you…
Nice. Some people get a streetcar named desire. Me, I’ve got a cat that sings old Dylan songs in my dreams, until a very early garbage truck comes around to murder sleep.
Bad: I don’t like waking up to the sound of screaming bin bags and a handful of irritating early birds, on a Monday morning at the tail end of a sheer endless & utterly boring winter.
Good: the cat is no longer mauling Dylan.
Bad: Now I have to feed the bloody animal.
Good: I can make a nice cup of tea while the cat is still preoccupied with its food.
The cat now sleeps on my bed. My tea has gone cold. Gmail tells me I’ve got spam: nine more Viagra ads - how nice. No new E-mails from my beloved - bugger. I could try to draw conclusions from the respective presence and absence of these mails. I could also go outside and kill a few of those irritating birds and try to find meaning in their still steaming entrails. I could even, just for the Hell of it, throw the cat in front of the garbage truck, bringing both to a screeching halt.
I can also shut down the computer and go buy more cat food. Man is but a slave to his pet. Before I close the door behind me, before I will be swallowed whole by Monday morning’s embarrassing embrace, I decide to get my own back. Unwise, I know. I will pay for it later, for sure. Still, it’s done – and I cannot help but grin madly, when I hear the machine wake up slowly and scrape its throat, while I tiptoe out of the room.
Behind me now the bleak morning sun; behind me all thoughts of online erection salesmen and fickle, faraway girlfriends; behind me the sound of a still hungry garbage truck moaning its way through Monday’s moody streets; behind me too, no doubt, a very angry cat. I imagine I am now inhabiting its dreams, singing:
My cracked voice and washed out horn
blow into the cat with scorn…
until it wakes up to the fully tanked up power of the music machine and the sound of master Bob’s cranky voice, singing I want you – over and over and over again.
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