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.
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