The Coming of the Toads
“Just once I would like to go somewhere for vacation,” I told him, “and not just sit around the house watching you with your whiskers in a book, your tail as still as a surfboard on the Oklahoma Panhandle.”
At the Wild Animal Park. It’s a Dogoneus. It’s on the Endangered List. “You’re going to be on the endangered list, if you don’t start showing some enthusiasm for this trip,” I told him.
At the Cat Dinosaur Museum. “We’re getting smaller and smaller,” he said. “Soon, we’ll be as small as mice. It’s called Existential Evolutionism.” “Is that why you’re always so bummed out?” I asked him.
Finally, he had some fun. Here he is on the Cat Teacup Ride.
In Japan. “No, it’s not The Beckoning Cat,” I told him. “She’s beckoning me,” he said, “to take her on Antiques Roadshow.” “I can’t take you anywhere,” I told him.
At the Colossus of Cats. “It’s not size,” he said, “but the sharpness of claws.”
Back home again. He’s doing some research on mice and re-reading all his Black Cat Books. Next year, he wants to visit all the great libraries of the world. I told him he can do that on his laptop. “I want to go dancing across the tierra of Los Angeles,” I told him. He looked at me like I might have cat scratch fever. “There is no earth in Los Angeles,” he said. “Yes, there is,” I said. “You just gotta dig it up.”