Best Friends Originally Untitled 

Reprinted from Chickenlegs.net - 8/03/02

The minute Freddy Mercury sings, “Oooo, you make me live,” my cat knows exactly what is going on.

Moving quickly before he can skitter away, I scoop him up onto my shoulder. He emits an anguished wail. Then the drums kick in and we dance, dance, dance.

I am singing at the top of my lungs when he begins to purr. I know he is faking. It is a purr that says, “I am pretending to enjoy this - put me down.” He can’t trick me.

Both other cats are in the room. In unison, they both emit unhappy yowls that are akin to a crying child. If my neighbors heard them over Queen, they would call child protective service.

I imagine them kicking down the door to my apartment.

“Michaels, where is the child?” they would yell, semi-automatic guns drawn.

“No kids here, officers!”

They would rip apart my apartment looking for a child, but would then hear the two cats cry, like those mini girls in Mothra. They would laugh and allow me to complete my pirouette a le chat.

It‘s good that the music is too loud for anyone to hear. Some things are best left private.

(Note: if you ignore this note, this update meets Dogma: July 2002 standards.)
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