Well…even though he is a dude and he has no breasts and could use some major manscaping, he is magnificent enough to scoop the next Sports Illustrated cover, no?
Meet my man Otis who, in a brief moment of abandon, permitted me to shoot him as he posed before a window, hoping to attract any “birds” passing by outside.
After the photo shoot, he grunted a few answers to my interview questions (he’s much like Keith Richards—often difficult to understand) and then promptly turned his back and sauntered away before I could properly finish the interview. Such a rock star.
Interview with Otis M., next SI model and cultural icon
My nickname: Oats, Oatie
My peeps would describe me as:
Devoid of morals, always ready to roll onto my back when I see a hand…any hand; aloof, yet surging with passion at the sight of a full dinner bowl or a chunk of fine cheddar; a trifle lazy, lounging around on cushions all day with one eye open while I watch the old lady work, but afire with piss and vinegar at the sight of the old lady manipulating a yarn ball.
Advice I hear constantly but choose never to heed:
“Otis, NO!” or “Get away from those plants!” or “GET DOWN from that table!” or “Get out of there!” Take your pick.
If you look in my personal basket, you’re apt to find:
(1) a couple of fugly cloth mice that I wish were real so I could rip their beady little eyes from their heads; (2) one of those preposterous DOG sweaters that the old lady forced over my head JUST ONCE—After the ruckus I raised, she finally got with the program—MY program—It’s always MY program. Capeesh?; (3) a ball with a bell in it that gives me a raging headache; (4) a stick with some feathers glued on it that just pisses me off because it reminds me that the old lady won’t let me outside to get at some REAL feathered friends; (5) a fabulous crocheted string that the old lady made for me to rip around the house with; (6) a spider I captured the other day and am saving for continued fun at a later date.
My celebrity crush is:
Paws down—it’s Pussy Galore from that James Bond movie that I watched with the old lady.
My favourite treat is:
(Sorry folks. No answer. Otis has left the building.)
To end this thing today on a more creative note, here’s a poem I wrote about a cat who isn’t keen on monkeys.
I was just an itty bitty boy,
When Gran made me a special toy,
A monkey made from bits of sock,
Companion, though he couldn’t talk.
Monkey shared my trundle bed,
His tail curled ‘round my sleepy head,
Kept the boogey men at bay,
All through the night, till break of day.
One morning Mr. Puss, our cat,
Chewed the tassel clean from Monkey’s hat,
Carried it to his hiding place,
Left a ragged hole near Monkey’s face.
Grandma cooed and dried my tears,
Eased my heart of all its fears,
Was Monkey now in awful pain?
Would he ever be the same again?
When I awakened from my nap,
Monkey wore a brand new cap,
Fresh tassel of red upon his head,
Fixed up and propped upon my bed.
I squealed with joy and hugged him near,
His monkey grin stretched ear to ear,
While Mr. Puss appeared to doze,
One wicked eye on Monkey’s nose.