Charles Deserves Some Credit

Charles likes to play games, and normally I don't hold game-players in high regard. I admire straight-talkers and no-bullshitters pretty much exclusively. But I have to say that Charles does command a certain level of respect in one regard: he is always trying to start fights with me, and I could definitely kick his ass. I mean seriously, it's no contest, I would obliterate him. If I really let myself go, it would be a serious bloodbath. I'm scared to even think about what would happen. But despite the fact that I weigh at least fifteen times as much as him, he still goes after me. Sometimes when I walk past him he comes out with a sucker-swat, I imagine in an attempt to take my legs out from under me. I can't believe that he would actually follow through and rip out my throat, he'd probably just offer his ass to my face or something disgusting, but still, you never know. It's possible that he doesn't understand proportions, because he also attacks my hand as though it were a separate person closer to his size. WTF? He keeps trying to eviscerate my wrist. I'm sure his violence comes from latent self-esteem issues, but I just don't have the time to play analyst to a cat. Anyway, healthy or unhealthy, he's certain a courageous cat if he thinks he can mess with me, and for that I give him my props.

Charles May Have Joined a Gang

I came home tonight from work to discover a white cat sitting on my porch, staring at me with the most shockingly human face I have ever seen on a cat. I don't know if you have ever contemplated a cat, dear Reader, but they are horrible cat-like beasts. They look like cats, except that they are tremendously small, barely larger than a squirrel. (Here's a terrifying thought: squirrels the size of large dogs.) Unlike the chivalric dog, who hates to make eye contact, the devious cat is constantly using eye contact as a tactic for social dominance. Charles is perpetually cowing me with his downright foxy gaze. This is partly the reason why I feel like we are in competition with each other. At any rate, here I find Charles, himself charmingly distracted by a clump of grass, in the company of a group of cats behaving exactly like a bunch of adolescent criminals. As I approached, this preternaturally gorgeous white cat continued to stare at me provocatively, just like one of those beautiful teenagers who mastermind youth violence, while another black cat skittered away, just like one of those sweet kids in the early, easily-spooked stage of their life of thuggery. When we got inside, Charles scarfed some Super Supper and bee-lined for his nook in the closet. I don't know how to talk to him about this, he doesn't want to listen to me, he just wants to sit on my computer all day, cleaning himself. It's probably my fault, for being away so much. I don't know what to do, I just don't know.

Kitten please!

Charles Has a Crazy Doppleganger

It is a mark of his extraordinariness as a cat that Charles has managed to bring into orbit his crazy doppleganger. I imagine that everyone has a demented duplicate in the world, an insane version of themselves operating at a distance, counterbalancing the influence of the socially viable person. Tragically, some people are their own crazy dopplegangers, a fact so terrifying to contemplate that if it were to come to consciousness, the person would likely suicide in a very ugly manner. For this reason, there are forces in the universe whose sole purpose is to keep these people separated, and people who employ themselves secreting crazy people away to distant locales. Well, Charles' deranged clone lives down the street. If you were to see this cat, you would not doubt me for an instant. They have exactly the same physique and fur, the same way of holding and carrying themselves, the same lonely gaze. Except that where Charles enacts his incredible stubbornness by refusing to move a muscle even when subjected to my violent attacks, this other other cat exerts his obstinacy by sitting out in the middle of the road, ignoring traffic. Where Charles sprints cutely back and forth across the apartment, this other cat weaves drunkly through hedges and crawls into culverts. Every time I run into this tangled and windswept Charles, I gag on my heart a few seconds, breathlessly wondering what happened to my irascible feline companion. The two seem to know each, though I don't know if they've brought themselves to interact. Every time I see them together, they are staring at each other from a distance, unable to approach yet unable to depart. I'm sure it's very confusing for the real Charles, and I'm sure most things are confusing for mad Charles. Sadly, I can have no input into this; it is a trial of the Charles', and only they can decide what it will mean.

Charles' Hygiene Perturbs Me

Charles doesn't have bad hygiene. Except for his soul-withering halitosis, his hygiene is exceptionally good. It's not good in that irritating way when people look like they're constantly spraying themselves with the mists of purity. Charles doesn't actually look intimidatingly clean. It's good in the way that it knows no bounds, which is to say that it is bad. For example, Charles has this horrifying habit where at any moment, in any company, he may suddenly begin to lick his own asshole. I hope I don't seem fixated on Charles' asshole, but it is pretty hard to ignore, especially with that one hind leg sticking straight up in the air like an offensive salute. This is easier to understand when you remember that cat's have miniature cow tongues, like scuffed up fan belts, but still, does he not have any taste buds? Charles doesn't merely content himself with his asshole, either. He licks his entire body. I don't blame him for this, I would lick my body if it didn't feel so sticky after. But one of the important differences between me and Charles is that he is entirely covered with hair and I am only partially covered with hair. I personally cannot stand the sensation of even one single hair on my tongue, especially cat hair. I hate it more than getting my socks wet or chewing on tin foil. I cannot conceive of how unpleasant it must be to drag your tongue in long, decisive licks across millions and millions of cat hairs, letting them build up at the back of your throat until finally you swallow them, and then, when you've swallowed enough, gagging them back up again in the form of a ball. But that preening bastard just loves it. I just wish he wouldn't do it with such relish.

Charles Hangs Out in Front of Visualizer

Charles and I are spending some time together with a mutual friend, just relaxing and talking about different things. All of a sudden, Charles gets up and walks over to the computer. Now, Charles is constantly asking to borrow my computer, and until now I've always said no, because he only wants to use it when I'm using it. Charles loves to create drama. But I wasn't using it this time, and our friend was there, so I decided to let him play around on it for a while. He immediately opens iTunes and turns on visualizer. Then he lies down in front of it and lets us soak it in, him and his special backdrop. At first I was thinking, "What a pompous jerk." But actually, it was a pretty awesome move. If I had a wall-sized visualizer, I'd probably hang out in front of it too.

Charles Is Trying to Involve Me With Something I Don't Understand

If ever a cat was inscrutable, Charles is that inscrutable cat. He may not even be a cat. He's been getting progressively more and more into some activities that make me uncomfortable. For example, he's developed a disturbing habit of crawling onto my lap, bending over, and staring at me with the single eye of his asshole. I don't know which gaze is the more sociopathic, that of his face or his ass. What does he want from me? Whatever the case, it's too late to put a stop to it, because he's intimidated me into pretending like it's normal. Now we go through this horrible charade every time I sit down to read. Awful.

What?

Charles Pretends to Be Stuck on the Roof

Yesterday I passed by my apartment while driving some people around for work and discovered Charles on the neighbor's roof, doing what can only be called caterwauling. It was a cold day and he looked absolutely forlorn and desperate, making those horrible extended cat-panic sounds. Me and three or four neighbors, even one I didn't know, a transsexual named Bruce, who hilariously knew Charles by his first name and seemed to be on intimate terms with him, we all stood around calling up to him. "Charles!" "Charlie!" "Charlie-cat, jump!" "Jump!" I stood underneath him with my arms up-stretched, hoping this wouldn't turn into a cat crisis. After about five minutes of this, I guess Charles had his fill of drama for the day, because he turned around, walked to the back of the house, jumped onto a shed, and jumped down. Disgusted, I let him into the apartment and gave him a delicious can of beef.