The Strange Shoes

It’s not our fault we’re creepy…. We were made by a creep. Do yourself a favor and make up your own story about us. Ours will either bore you or give you nightmares, depending on your own level of creepiness. It’s really for the best if we leave it this way. Also, the author of this blog is feeling lazy. Thanks a bunch! -xo (That’s our names: x and o)

The Lil' Homey

Dear America,

A lil' about me? In my mind I am the following:

I'm a lover, not a fighter. I was born in Oakland, CA and I don't even speak Spanish. I play softball, not baseball. Slow pitch. I play catcher, and I love it.

I urge you to never judge a book by it's cover. Speaking of books, and for further irony, my favorite read is Catcher In the Rye and my favorite quote from the Salinger classic is, "People always think something's all true."

My favorite food is Ethiopian. My favorite beverage is a Mai Tai. My favorite holiday is the Fourth of July, because I live for fireworks.

I'm a people person. I work as a psychodrama therapist, and I have my own practice. I'm a home/boat/golfcart owner. I'm fiscally responsible.

I'm happily married with no children. We plan to adopt. From Ethiopia. Love the food, love the people.

That's all for now. Just a reminder, America, that I am a lovable legal, and am often offput when others assumes otherwise. Also I can say that last sentence 10 times fast... in English only.

Peace,
Lil' Homey (thus named because I'm little and I'm a homebody)

The Bobcat named Robert, Part 2

Well, a couple of weeks have passed and some major changes have occurred. I’m afraid to report that I am entirely in the dark, too. Grrr, if only I could speak I think I could rectify my current situation!

My bachelor-owner-friend, Chris, is getting married this weekend. I forgot to mention before that Chris became otherwise engaged recently. His girlfriend is now his fiancé, and I found myself playing second fiddle for the first time. That’s a figurative phrase of course. A bobcat playing an instrument is a ridiculous notion, though quite hilarious. And I do love bluegrrrass music.

So it was that Chris became engrrrossed in his new life with his soon to be wife, I was given less and less attention. I admit I was and am still a bit hurt because he used to acknowledge me when he came in the door, but how quickly I went from acknowledgement to abandonment. I now find myself locked behind a different door altogether.  I now find myself utterly alone and confused as to what went wrong. Constantly I must ask myself, how can I compete with the living? Especially a living human of the female persuasion. But, such is life. Or death. Well you know what I mean.

The fiancé, Kara is her name, is a lovely girl. She really is, and beautiful, too. Even I can see this. I do not hold ill will toward any animal. That is my prerogative. I believe one should forgive and forget. I will say, however, that though I have forgiven the cute couple, it is hard to forget the fact that I am now locked up in a closet, which I do not find so cute. All I ever wanted was to love and be loved. Apparently Kara does not love me. This is problematic as Chris loves her, and thus my fate is sealed. I think if only she gave me a chance I could grrrow on her.

So I am trying to remain positive. Maybe this will all end once the honeymoon period is over. Chris will discover me, in the back of the guest room closet, and be reminded of the affection he once had. He will gently explain to Kara that I am a family heirloom of sorts and I should be on display. I should be the first thing one sees on entering el casa de Chris y Kara. I picked up some Spanish this year on Cinco de Mayo. One of Chris’s friends, in his drunken state, actually tried to feed me a Corona. I imagine it tasted nice and refreshing, though of course I have no idea. But I digrrress…

All that to say, I refuse to give up hope! I have been through too much grrrief in my existence and non-existence to lose my profound sense of optimism – the one thing that carries me through. I’ve decided to approach this period of my death as a philosophical respite. I have time now, much like the great monks or yogis throughout the ages, to focus inward and grow into the inanimate object I was created twice to be. Some animals would kill for this opportunity. Solitude is a journey in and of itself. Kara will come around. I have faith in her, but for now, I still say that life (within this lifeless body) is beautiful.

The Bobcat named Robert

Hi there neighbor! My name is Robert, but please just call me Bob. Whenever anyone calls me Robert, I look around for my father, you know? Anywho… I am pleased to make your acquaintance. You might have been startled by my stare at first, but once you understand that I am an affable animal with a congenial disposition, I hope to change your first impression from negative to positive.

It’s always been a challenge being a friendly bobcat. Well, not as much anymore, due to my present precarious circumstances. I am currently and ever more shall be trapped in this body with this stupid scream on my face. What is challenging, mostly, is the fact that I am misrepresenting myself. I’m such a nice cat I really am. I wish you could interview my family. My little cousins used to make fun of me for being so passive and generous of spirit. The called me “Bobbycatty,” because they said I was effeminate and weak. The thing is, I’m not at all and never was. I just happened to be born with an amiable personality, as well as an excellent vocabulary (Spelling Bee champ 3 years in a row, with a reward of honey-coated bees as the prize).

So I guess you would like to know my story, how I came to be in this predicament. Well, it’s a fairly common story among the hunted in that I was killed by a hunter who was hunting me. Though I will mention and elucidate the details of the day I died, because there are some decently interesting points in the overall tale.

Back home I was actually the head of the bobcat NPO, LynxWatch, a group of adult cats who were concerned about crime and cannibalism amongst the youth of our fold. We have to look out for the kittens – they are the future you know. Also, a secondary function of the group was to watch out for hunters… Kill two birds with one stone and all that. So it happened that one steamy Saturday night it was my turn for the watch. Now in my preemptive defense, I was recovering from a head cold. Also, I was suffering from diet-induced fatigue. I myself am a pescetarian (another reason I was taunted by my own with unfailing disregard for freedom of choice and an unnaturally weak stomach), and our pack had been away from a water source for days. I was trying to sustain myself on insects and foliage, but I must say the lack of protein was probably playing with my mind. Maybe it is pride speaking, but I certainly was not as alert and my instincts were waning. I wondered away from my station for just a moment, but just a moment proved to be a moment too long.

I heard the gunshot before I saw movement even. I knew in that moment I was a goner. However I felt no pain. So, surprised to be alive I decided to run away from my camp in hopes that the others might be saved and I might escape into a more wooded area not far from the spot. I ran my fastest, which if you have studied my noble species, you will understand is fast indeed. I was almost to the dense forest when I heard another shot ring out. I was still light as a feather on the wind and therefore I counted myself unharmed. I raced at a panther pace (that’s what we call a pace slightly slower than our speediest spring) until I was about a mile in. I just knew I was saved and promptly began to worry about the others. Unfortunately my judgment was erroneous. The third shot rang loud and clear, and my world was changed forever. There was a guy in a tree. A tree! Who climbs trees to kill things? You should only climb trees for fun.  Well, perhaps for protection from predators, but never TO BE A predator! That is just not just! But, what do I know? I’m but a mere bobcat, and now I’m but a mere prop. Don’t feel too sorry for me, though, as I happen to believe in forgiveness above all the virtues.

Also, I posit that it is far healthier for one’s mind and soul to be positive in all circumstances. I like to believe in my immobile condition that I do bring some people joy. I’ve been this way for 20 years now. The guy that shot me, well he promptly took me to be stuffed by the taxidermist and I won’t lie, it tickled a little bit. I mean I couldn’t really feel it, but I imagined it tickled, so it somehow did. A little known fact about inanimate objects that were once capable of feeling: they retain the ability to imagine sensation to a certain extent. It’s kind of like that phantom limb thing some humans talk about. This is somewhat ironic because the guy who shot me eventually lost his pinky by falling out a tree, and proceeded to complain forever about his phantom finger.  Another irony: his name was Robert.

Robert left me to his son Robert Christopher, called Chris, in his will. Chris is a good-natured guy who enjoys golf and sushi. I think I would enjoy sushi, too, if I could try it. He put me in the entryway of his bachelor pad as a conversion piece. I am not as intimidating as I once was, and I LOVE it. People laugh, and I laugh with them. They stare, and I look deep in their eyes and see the good in their hearts. I am privy to their lively conversations and their pop music. Sure, I am dead, but life is good.

The Pompous Peanut

You want my story you say? It will not take long, you are only asking for some sort of fascinating tidbit or two? Well, I cannot account as to why you should ask, or why I am to be bothered by such requests. I am a cultural icon, madam. I need not crack my shell open for the world to see, or give you, a commoner, the nuts and bolts of my life. What do I look like? Do I resemble some sort of banal braggart, or dimwitted dupe? I assure you I am neither. Nay, I am a lofty legume. I am to be respected and revered.

Oh, what’s that you say? You simply desire a simple tale, and cannot fathom why I fuss. Well, for one thing I am certainly not some simpleton. I am sophisticated and I am a gentlemenut. I have no time for games or gossip.  I wear a top hat and a monocle. I carry a cane with white gloves. Spectacular spats take me where I want to go. I am nearly a century old. I do not care to entertain you with common speech or vulgarities even.  Good day…. What? PayDay? No, you wisecracking wench! I said, GOOD DAY ma’am.

The Bunny Who Wanted To Live

Day 1: This woman is one crazy cracker bunny bashing bitch. Seriously, she is simply sadistic. I don’t understand people at all. What did we ever do to make her hate our kind so much? We didn’t choose how we were created? And she, she finds it amusing to force me to look at other bunnies killing themselves while chomping the heads and tails off my fellow comrades from the box. I guess at the very least they receive the mercy of a quick finish. Not me. For me, she is bent on torture, talking to me in a condescending manner all the while, hopped up on my white cheddar amigos, lemonade, and pure evil.

 I don’t know her name, but I lump her with Annie and Andy. These two are every bit as culpable. They create the image of sweet little bunnies, and then put them through every misery imaginable. For profit! What must have happened to them in their childhood to make them this way? What kind of selfish bastards harm innocent animals, and in such a perverted way? All I want is to live!

Day 2: Well, the unthinkable happened. My tale encountered an unexpected twist. The psycho sister who bought me was startled by a knock on the door, and you know what? She actually dropped me on the floor! I’m alive against all odds. And, I haven’t even told you the best part yet. I’m under the couch. It could be weeks, maybe months before I’m found. Hopefully by then I will be deemed inedible and promptly tossed in the garbage pail to jump from junk to junk for all eternity. My little heart is so happy right now.

Day 3: Well of course crazy keeps cats. I’m done for. It’s only a matter of seconds and I will be but a passing thought in snack time. Her dumbass cat has me in its mouth, but it has yet to go for the kill. It’s coming though. It’s toying with me, wiggling me with its tongue, playing gamine games while I suffer between its terrifying teeth. Goodbye sweet world, or should I say salty? I didn’t get to see much of you, but maybe I’ll be reincarnated as something other than something that is eaten. Wouldn’t that be nice? I did spy some colorful decorations in a glass cage on the coffee table. They looked like little bears, and like they knew how to bring the party. They are the cutest creatures, with their colorful smiles and adorable gummy tummies. Perhaps I could be one of them?

The Discolored Santa

“Ignorance is bliss,” they say. And I always believe the proverbial “they.” “They” are certainly right here. For instance, if only I was unaware of my general appearance, then maybe I could be jolly. But, no, I’m a shadow of the man I used to be. A shadow of the man I’m supposed to be. Oh woe is me!

I want to cry sometimes, which is ironic on multiple levels.

First of all, I am the image of merry, or at least I was. I’m a busted Kris Kringle, Saint Nicholas, the spirit of joy and giving, the hope of Christmas secularity. But instead of looking like a winter icon as I used to, as I should, I appear more like an autumn logger.

I am aware of these things because I can see my reflection in the back of this compact car, in the rear window, and occasionally the side windows and front window (as I am four-sided).  My owner stuck me back here in February of 2007, after spending an illustrious 2006 holiday season gracing a coffee table sandwiched between the Christmas tree and the mistletoe bedecked front door. Those were happier times. But, alas, all good things must come to an end. So to humor her kids, co-workers, and I assume the various observant strangers who point and laugh, I have spent the past four years in a perpetual state of sunburn.

Second, in terms of irony, is the fact that I cover the very thing that I would use to wipe the wet blue eyes that won’t wet. I was made by an elderly woman at an assisted living home as a fundraiser for pet adoptions. I was made with love and care by this patient lady, Ms. Marie, who had bony, brittle fingers, a fact that I warmly recall. If I had not been sold, if she had only kept me, I am sure I would be used to teleport the tissue paper that would ease the seasonal allergies of my dear maker. Instead I was sold to a hard-working woman with precocious kids and spend my time watching the tissues I carry wipe boogies or scabs, blood and mucus, or picking up dead ladybugs that somehow made it into and then failed to make it out of this 1990 Nissan Maxima. In 2008 it was known to me as “the pukemobile” due to an unfortunate series of stomach bugs that plagued my owner’s family (even worse than the poor ladybugs).

So here I sit, terrified of the incoming heat of summer, of what it will do to further discolor my already faded image. What used to be brilliant red and green is now burnt orange and well, a less than brilliant green. At least my balls are still fluffy and white, and my beard has not yellowed… yet. My weathered visage is a constant source of stress for me. It’s really just vanity. I know I shouldn’t complain. It’s unbecoming of my position. Who wants to hear Father Christmas (or Big Papa on the street) bellow and bemoan this life? But, no one can hear me anyway! Let’s face it, I am Santa no longer. All is meaningless under the sun. I have no ho, ho, hope.

Still I’m sorry to be a sullen Santa. I’m depressing even myself. I guess it’s not so bad here. At least I’m not rotting in a dump somewhere, though I have no sense of smell (a fact I was profoundly thankful for throughout most of 2008). And to be fair, sometimes I see interesting things. In fact, I’ve seen naughty and nice. I witnessed a parking lot mugging once, as well as the generosity and kindness of my owner and her co-workers, who volunteer at the school for the blind next door to their offices. And I’ve beheld the glory of many a full, bright moon on many a silent night. A most happy holiday happened this past Christmas, when snow graced Georgia on the day! The very day I tell you. I never thought I would see a White Christmas, but now I have. I could count my blessings more often I know. And yet, I can no longer pretend to be something I clearly am not, or at least vaguely am not. I want to be fully me, the best me I can be!

To wrap it all up, if I were living the life I was meant to live, it would go something more like this: I would be stored in an attic until after Thanksgiving, then I and my fellow Christmas cohorts would be brought down for decorations, cherished until the New Year, and promptly returned to our plastic bins to bask in the glow of the joy we gave and were given until the next year’s merry go-round. I would be in holiday heaven instead of jingle bell hell. And so, I refuse to continue living this lie. I am relinquishing my Santa-hood as it were. I could be anyone… I think I’ll get back to my Greek roots even…

And so, allow me to introduce my new self. I am now known to my friends simply as Nic, and I make a mean hummus spread.