Goober Picatsso

Ya know, I don’t like to talk about it much but, growing up, I had it pretty rough. So, after I was taken in by them I didn’t care what they decided to do. Them being the Uprights who brought me in from the cold when I was a ragged old homeless cat who’d been around for two miserable winters at the time, surviving on my wits and stray rats. I mean, I likely would have been urban road kill if they hadn’t a teased me, tempted me with their kibbles and their kootchy cooing all the time, just to seduce me into their home, get me to trust them.

I wasn’t an easy sell. It took a couple a weeks of me sniffing around their place, taking their handouts, getting used to them. I was tough, wary, skittish and on my guard every second of the day and night. I didn’t trust no one. Had to be that way. You don’t get born on the docks crawling with a bunch of flea infested, albeit tasty, wharf rats and not get your spine stiffened. I tried to tell Curious, once we got to know each other and I got house broke, that she ought to consider herself incredibly lucky never to have lived my kind of life. It was a waste of time. Them’s that are raised soft and stuffed…they don’t really wanna know about the other side of the tracks. Anyway, it didn’t matter if she listened to me or not. I just knew I was finally riding a good wave and that’s all that mattered.

So, no matter what doubts old Curious had about our move to this island, I was just thankful that they took me. I mean, they could have left me on someone’s doorstep. And to tell you the truth, I kind a liked that Curious and I were now sort of on the same level. We both had to get use to a new place. I maybe had a leg up on her. I was used to discombobulation. She was the one who had her hairball perpetually twisted in a knot.

But to get to the meat of the matter. If I had one prima donna complaint, it was my dumb luck to be taken in by, yuck, vegetarians. Fanatics to the bone. So they made it crystal clear that if I wanted to savour flesh of cow scraps, or goat bones to ramp up my diet to an acceptable feline protein level, I would have to earn some moolah and enhance the family budget.

Now, this rinky dink Island we moved to didn’t have a lot of employment opportunities for a street wise cat. But what it did have was an amazing acceptance of “Art.” But what the heck was “Art” I asked myself? Eventually I cottoned on. The uprights who made “Art” had way too much time on their paws. To convince themselves that they were of some use to the universe, they “created.” Like a pack of third-rate Gods, they swarmed to spaces they called studios and painted, shaped, knitted and chiseled all manner of mostly useless objects which other Uprights hemmed and hawed over, “appreciated,” whatever the heck that was, and, now get this, sometimes actually paid for with good coin of the realm.

Seriously, they bought this stuff!

I was flabbergasted.

It was a true mystery.

So, as old Ziggy Freud said, “Time spent with cats is never wasted.” I took that old saw one step further. “Time spent with a cat’s art is never wasted. But it’ll cost ya.”

I employed a range of organic mediums. Curious had a very predictable daily habit of expectorating and regurgitating her food. I took this material and fashioned a set piece of life as a homeless puss. Curious’s cheap, easily scoopable leavings also allowed me to assemble a wonderfully pungent longitudinal collage of my work. These litter box goodies were especially malleable and inspired me to capture the raw pain of my catastrophic earlier existence.

My mistress immediately saw my genius.  With her handy skills, she arranged my first show, A Cats Eye View, at the local art gallery. It was a runaway hit. We sold out.

If there was a downside, it was that my coming out sparked a caterwaul of copycat art. Still, I was the first. We flooded the market with my work.

These days, I mostly bask in the glory.

“Art ,” I love ya.


This is my ripped-from-reality response to FRIDAY FICTION with RONOVAN WRITES Prompt Challenge #10