Since the coming of the New Year, I've achieved a small degree of fame. Even as a humble cat, I can't say I don't enjoy the extra bit of strut in my step.
On New Year's morning, a picture postcard arrived for the master. It was a New Year's greeting from a certain artist friend. Its upper part was colored red, its lower part deep green, and a crouching animal was drawn in the center with pastel. Seated in his study as always, the master regarded the card from the sides, top, and bottom and remarked on its fine color. Having thus voiced his appreciation, I wondered it he wasn't done with it. He looked again, then, from the sides, top, and bottom. He twisted about and extended his arms, like an elder handling the Book of Divination. He turned toward the window then drew the card close to his nose. The longer this went on, the more precarious my perch on his rolling lap. At long last the lunging subsided. "What on earth is it?" he muttered to himself in a low voice. While appreciative of the colors, the master seemed hard pressed to identify the form. Wondering if the card was really so abstruse, I tactfully cracked my sleepy lids. I regarded the card with no preconceived notion, and what I saw was clearly my own likeness. Unlike the master, I don't fancy myself any Andrea del Sarto, but the form and the color bore clearly the mark of an artist. No one could argue it wasn't a cat. It was splendidly drawn, and any discerning eye would conclude that of all the cats out there, it was none other than me. I pity any human who would struggle so with something so obvious. Had I been able, I would like to have told him it was me. Or if not that it was me, at least that it was a cat. However, heaven has never blessed the human race with an understanding of our cat tongue, so much as it pained me I let it be.