Talking to your cats is OK. When it gets bad is when you begin to think you understand the cat language and think they're having
a conversation with you. At least that's the thin line of sanity I'm determined to preserve in Casa Big Cat. And right now, there's
no inkling at all of any comprehension of all the meowing going on at my place. The boys call each other (at least that's what I
think they're doing in some rudimentary sense) but I have yet to decipher it. No Margaret Mead in Casa Big Cat. When I imitate
the yowling the lads just give me dirty looks. And sometimes destroy a piece of pottery. I do need to get them to come to my call occasionally - like when I have to lock them up in your mother's study (AKA the kitty cooler) when Gorette comes over to clean. And they completely ignore conventional stuff like "Here kitty kitty." "What the hell does he want? So demanding that pathetic Big Cat."Then I yowl. Quite badly actually. And I'm sure it means nothing in cat. But it works. The boys obediently trot upstairs to investigate who or what is foully mangling their language. And possibly to inflict severe punishment on the perpetrator. Then before they can find a pot or a clay platter to reduce to shards, I quickly shut the door on them. Ha, the wily Big Cat has triumphed
again. Frankly. actually learning a second language is overrated. xxx dad
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