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Did the Cat Just Really Say That?

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Animals don't speak English. But, I swear on my dirty socks that they understand what I'm saying by how I talk to them and they absolutely understand what I'm feeling and thinking. They then respond as if I'm another one of them, which the uneducated punish them for, but they are just being themselves. Who's the intelligent being in this picture?

This odd duplicity of being able to understand humanity and yet, be completely different beings as animals is puzzling and makes me check the bottom of my glass. After yet another righteous heartbreak and degrading experience where I had to, yes, had to, beg and ask for more punishment, I was dealt the final blow with the obvious overriding importance of a video game on the other end of the line. So, it's not that he's married, it's not that he's mean, it's that he's playing a video game on the phone while my heart is breaking. Now that is degrading.

So much for guys. I WILL leave them alone, but why do they leave me alone? Or why don't they. And suddenly, the perfect creation of love jumps up to give me an expression of sheer affection and love. Now, why, think I, would I want to be with one of those things on the phone when I can spend my life receiving absolute pure affection? God, cats, elephants and bears don't lie much. How refreshing.

Okay, so maybe the cat CAN say "Uh-huh" and "Me,too" in guttural sounds, but she's just communicating with me as I can understand her. The wierd thing is she KNOWS that. Just as I communicate with her as a cat would. It's kind of simple, it's called communication. What is it about men and animals that make communicating with the beasts of the world so much more interesting and joyful? Why didn't God, or Adam, or Eve, or somebody make relationships between men and women so difficult.

After swearing off men for life, I gleefully accept an incoming phone call from a jerk from my past, as if the time passed has made him a sudden gift of perfection rather than the dirtbag that locked me out of the hotel room on vacation without a dime in my pocket on the Tamiami Trail at the Best Western? Do you know what it's like to entertain oneself with the waffle maker for 3 hours waiting for the manager to arrive at work to give a special permission to get a room without paying for it, which of course at precisely 9 AM, she denies. Oh my God. Hitchhike? Cab it to the ATM? Wait, last time I looked, there was only $6 in my cup of bounty. Ummm.

Does anyone know of a hospital in the area? Where's my cat, I'm thinking? And I paid for this? Why not just talk to my cat and risk a padded room and a small carton of milk? God, never agin. 'Prolly. No way.

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And that was it until I forgave him 30 seconds ago for support. I'll never see him again anyway. Oh, God, do I have to see this heel? I'm going out to find another one. Where's my cat? "I'll be back in an hour, or so, sweetie, just an hour."

With a surge of fear in my chest, I turn on my heels and begin the unbelievable process of painting and primping to look better than I do, isn't this enough? You mean I have to try now? God! What a chore! Mascara? Do people do this for fun? What happened to me? I used to feel beautiful without even trying and now I have to make this huge effort just to put on a pair of underwear. And shaving? I don't have the hour it takes, the packs of razors, or the wherewithall to apply the necessary emollients afterwards to avoid looking worse than I did before I undertook such an arduous task.

Kityy? God that bed sure does look inviting. Okay, shoes, belt, God, I used to love this stuff. What happened? Ahh! There she is, in her little igloo house she frequents, loaded with toys, strings, fishing poles, stuffed animals and things that would only appeal to a person. Ummm, she does at least like to sit in the clean laundry pile. And of course, she meows a "?", and I tell her where I'm going. Like I know.

Okay, shoes, brush my teeth and lipgloss, final check, and then it's out the door to feel fabulously fresh and beautiful and loving life all the while. This had got to be a tampon commercial. Uggg. That's okay, act as if, umm, I'm going somewhere, gotta be somewhere, now I've really hit my stride and have made it.

Okay, so he was pleasant, but the language! The dark-haired one was cute but knew it, and the latino was disgusting. Can't he just say hi, how are you? Does he have to smooch because he's never seen me before? I'm really starting to feel an electric shock of pain in my chest cavity, and I may be having a panic attack if I don't get back to my cat soon. There's always the ineffectual and useless phone calls to make to message machines and voice mails of real people who are working, healthy and are happy shiny people.

A quick turn on Park Ave. makes my final decision to return to that comforter and more comfort of a toasted bagel, ordered out for with money I don't have, but they don't know that yet. So, what? They don't know. I've earned this. God, I'd love to be talking to my cat cuz she knows! She's a person in a catsuit. I think I'll skip the Korean deli, the line of stockbrokers and insurance salesmen who look completely identical to one another, and the women who walk around and are still loved looking the way they do. So, what's my problem? Okay, the bagel and conversations with my cat. Now, I've found true love. Just let me take this make-up off first.

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Elizabeth Adams Miller New York, NY 10021 PROFESSIONAL PROFILE Editorial Experience -Assistant Beauty Editor, Seventeen Magazine, under Suzanne Kennedy Flynn -Columnist for Young Miss Magazine, Heart-to-Heart. -Assistant (more...)

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