There are several levels of titles to signify the relative importance of the titled.
For regular schmoes like me there’s Mister. (Missus on the distaff side.)
Moving up the totem pole some, for entry level titled persons we find Sir, or Madam.
A little further up, we find Prince (not the musician) or Princess.
Another step up, and we see Excellency.
Near the top we find Majesty and Highness.
And at the very tippy-top of the totem pole comes . . . Catness.
Some (misguided) people think if cats had opposable thumbs they’d rule the world. Some of us know the truth. Cats rule the world now, and we’re here for their convenience. Why would a cat want to use a cell phone when that responsibility can be delegated to an underling?
A cat permits us to live in her house. In exchange we’re expected to provide milk and tuna, empty the litter box daily, and make a comfy lap when she wants it.
About that litter box, cat tinkle mixed with certain types of kitty litter makes a rock-like compound which could probably be used to permanently fill potholes. I suspect the reason the Egyptians worshipped cats is because they provided a really strong mortar for the pyramids — which endure to this day.
No other creature on Earth can deliver a stink-eye like a cat. Wrong brand of tuna? Stink-eye. Too much noise? Stink-eye. No lap to nap on? Stink-eye. And if you think a cat purrs because it loves you, you are sadly mistaken. Her Catness purrs because her staff is well trained, and her wishes are well met. As with all divas, nothing and no one else matters to Her Catness.
The two primary members of Her Catness’ staff are the Minister of the Commissary, who buys the tuna, opens the cans, pours the milk, and sees to the water dish, and the Minister of the Emissary, who deals with the emissions. To rework the nursery rhyme:
Hey dinkle dinkle the cat took a tinkle
And maybe even a doop.
The old dog shrugged to see such a sight
And I followed up with the scoop.
When the dog wanted to make friends and play, Her Catness gave the dog a taste of cat claws. The 60-pound dog was cowed by a seven-pound cat. Now, every once in a while, the dog sniffs the cat’s butt, and the cat sniffs the dog’s feet. Détente, as it were.
There is another cat song that goes like this:
“Pussycat pussycat, where have you been?
I’ve been up to London to visit the Queen.
Pussycat pussycat, what did you there?
I frightened a little mouse under her chair
Yeah, well . . . Her Catness doesn’t do mice, and she doesn’t do meow. I’ve watched Her Catness looking at a mouse scurrying across the floor two steps down from where Her Catness was sitting. Her Catness is too regal to be hunting. And her meow is more like a meep — as if to say “someone of my importance and breeding would never condescend to shouting.”
Incidentally, Her Catness is a rescue cat, chosen because somebody else rescued the one we were going to take, and the second choice bit me hard enough to draw blood. Don’t tell Her Catness that though. Best to leave a sleeping cat lie.
The Quote: “When my cats aren’t happy, I’m not happy. Not because I care about their mood, but because I know they’re just sitting there thinking up ways to get even.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley