I USED TO BE A CAT

For one thing… hi.  🙂  I realize my blogs are becoming an annual thing… therefore, much cause for celebration!!
So I used to be a cat, see.  
And I dislike cats.  

Well… It’s more that I love dogs.  And here’s why (kudos to Amy for this forwarded e-mail):


From a Dog’s Diary ~

8:00 am – Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 am – A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 am – A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30 am – Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00 pm – Lunch! My favorite thing!
1:00 pm – Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 pm – Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 pm – Milk bones! My favorite thing!
7:00 pm – Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 pm – Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
11:00 pm – Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!

From a Cat’s Diary…

Day 983 of my captivity.

My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects.
They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets.
Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength.
The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape.
In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet.
Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a ‘good little hunter’ I am. Bastards.
There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of ‘allergies.’ I must learn what this means and how to use it to my advantage.
Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow — but at the top of the stairs.
I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches.
The dog receives special privileges.  He is regularly released – and seems to be more than willing to return.
He is obviously retarded.
The bird has got to be an informant.  I observe him communicating with the guards regularly.  I am certain that he reports my every move.  My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe.
For now…….

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I love that.  Although I should really learn to like cats better, because my new roommate has a cat and will be moving in soon.  She swears its personality is more like a dog, though, so that’s good  🙂
If I take these two personalities and relate it to my relationship with God, I would say for the most part, I have been a cat for a long while now.  If I take the metaphor that God is my owner and my entire purpose is to be His… then it’s a pretty good metaphor.
I’ve been suspicious.  
I’ve been annoyed.
  I’ve been over-analyzing.
  I’ve felt patronized by my owner.
  I’ve felt isolated by him.
  I’ve thought “the happy dogs” were retarded.
  I’ve been discontent with my rations.  
I’ve wanted my freedom, assuming there is something better for me out the door.

… And I’ve been a champion getting mad at my owner on behalf of “all pets everywhere” as if this somehow changes anything and gets back at Him.

  A pet/owner relationship is only fulfilling if the creature takes its creaturely role of submitting to the one it was created for.  If not, you have chaos, lack of training, and weariness on everyone’s part.
What if I actually have a good home?  What if it’s more like I’ve actually been rescued from a terrible existence outside the door?  …That I get well fed and that times of isolation are for a purpose and not to torment me?  What if the “happy dogs” are just that: Content.  OK with knowing the answers are unknown for the moment.
I write so many things like this… It’s like all my songs, all my writings, come back to this.  And yet I crawl back into the cat suit and hiss out of pity for all of us.
There are definite reasons for being a cat, and I will be the first to identify with someone who is cynical with hard questions that never get answered. 
 But I’m tired.
  And being a cat just isn’t fun.
So I’m going to go sniff someone’s butt.  

(My favorite thing!)

Currently Reading:
The Problem of Pain – C.S. Lewis