Rarely is a man so great that even the legends written about him fail to truly capture the magnificence of his existence. This is one of those situations. This is an especially unique case, however, because the great man I am writing about is not a man. Readers, put on your monocles and be seated in your favorite fireside chair, for I shall chronicle the life and times of my cat, Boots.
Bootsington T. Cat (“Boots” for short) came to me a few years ago and has changed my life for the better, simply by the virtue of me being in his stately presence. The quintessential gentleman, an air of dignity (and a trail of shed hair) follows him wherever he roams. And oh, how he roams! When I brought him from my hometown to my new abode here in Gainesville, I brought him outside so that he could grow acclimated to his new surroundings (Boots is not a mere “indoor” cat, for no boundaries can hold his insatiable desire for adventure). However, during the aforementioned acclimatization, he eluded me and disappeared into the foliage. I anxiously waited for his return for a whole 24 hours, desperately attempting to avoid imagining a world bereft of his magnificent aura. As I finally began to come to peace with what I believed to be a terrible new future, Boots emerged from a dense thicket with a satisfied wanderlust and a mighty hunger for a good meal. I shall never know what his travels consisted of, since, you know, he’s a cat and stuff.
I am not the only one privy to the brilliance of Boots. Just today, my roommate found himself in conflict with Boots over who should claim the bed for his afternoon nap. The argument became heated, and my roommate was intimidated; he slept on the couch while Boots claimed his rightful position on the bed. My roommate’s cowardice, while embarrassing, was the correct response to the situation, as Boots would not have thought twice about beating him about the head and neck repeatedly.
Recently, some sort of rapscallion queried if I should ever photograph Boots and caption it in the fashion of so-called “lolcats.” Truly, it was a question only an imbecile would ask. Associating such poor grammar and decorum with such a grandiose being as Boots would be an insult of the most egregious sort! Besides, Boots would never ask if he “can has cheezburger.” His taste is much more refined. If there were a caption to a photograph of the dignified Bootsington T. Cat, it should read: “Perchance I may sample some of your finest Beluga caviar?”
Only then would the qualities of this fantastic feline be properly projected.
Dearest readers, if you find yourself wondering why this normally juvenile writer is writing with such fine language, or why you suddenly feel the urge to wear a silk robe and listen to Mozart, know that it is simply a phenomenon that occurs when Boots is being discussed. He is a shining example of class and excellence, and we should all endeavor to be more like him.
(Don’t worry, guys, I’ll make fart jokes next week.)
