Photo of Lucky Boots Traverse by the Original Human
Salutations. My regal name is Monsieur Olivier Cromwell Traverse IV. Since your human brain operates so feebly, you may address me as Lucky Boots. With my pink-padded and fluffy paws (superior in might to any iron fist), I rule the kingdom known as The House — quite a task, with such unruly inhabitants as the original human, the human she married, and that human’s increasingly giantlike progeny, not to mention the lumbering beast referred to as my “dog sister.” (Shall I remind you of the deficits of your human mind? Cats do not have dogs for siblings.)
The original human requested that I provide a written introduction to this magazine, and while I think the best use of a printed magazine is as a day bed, perfect for my many naps, I acquiesced. She has been asking for years, even pointing out that “Lily Bear [that’s what she calls the dog] has written an article for us.” And? Who would think me so eager to please as a humble dog? I would not have agreed to write this, except that I derive power from remaining beguilingly unpredictable.
Lucky Boots surveys his kingdom.
Plus, a dog (not even the one who herds me around The House) has written the column that concludes this publication. They say that having the last word is best, but we all know that superior beings deserve to be heard first. Truly, there is no reason for you to read beyond this page. No subsequent article could hope to be more edifying.
People talk of training dogs, which I suppose is more or less possible, but cats? I can speak only for myself, but the fact is that I have trained the humans, not the other way around.
(The original human did ask me to mention that you shouldn’t miss the annual “pet guide” — which features animals with occupations, the chumps — or the Nashville road-trip story, or the Brooks Museum story, or the nursing story, or really any of the stories. I do not care in the least what you choose to read, unless your choices motivate you to: a) feed me, b) bring me a string to pounce upon, c) lie down flat so that I may rest upon your abdomen, or d) legally guarantee that I will never be put into the evil prison known as a “cat carrier” ever again. Otherwise, you do you.)
Better than discussing frivolous topics that have nothing to do with me? Telling you more about me, naturally. Perhaps you have surmised from my rather lengthy official appellation that I am a cat of noble birth, and perhaps you have deduced from my portrait that I sport a permanent tuxedo, as befits a gentleman of my status. It may surprise you, then, to learn that I was a foundling. Yes, I was discovered as a kitten of merely five weeks, playing alone near heavy traffic on Wolf River Boulevard. Without mother or siblings, I fended for myself admirably, managing to avoid the clutches of those diabolical metal creatures on strange, wheeled paws. The original human’s father and stepmother helped me into the car, and while there was early talk of “finding someone to adopt the kitten,” well, who could rehome a fluffy, tuxedo-clad, clever, and (I’ll admit) sweet little prince such as myself? That was nearly 13 years ago.
People talk of training dogs, which I suppose is more or less possible, but cats? I can speak only for myself, but the fact is that I have trained the humans, not the other way around. I am an alarm clock in the morning, ensuring that any snoozing they attempt will be punctuated with the plaintive rowwwrs of a cat who may not have been fed in days, nay, weeks. I remind them to tidy up, by attacking the laces of any shoe left languishing on the floor, and to close doors behind them, by disappearing into the attic / closet / bathroom vanity / pantry / cupboard whenever possible, thus forcing the silly humans to undertake frantic house-wide searches for me. Haha! How foolish they appear, while I nestle in darkened nooks and laugh and laugh.
I realize that I have told you only but a little of my valiant and charming tale, but … perhaps another time. When I agreed to write this for you, I did not realize I would need to stay awake the entire time. You are, of course, welcome to continue admiring me while I sprawl out and snore. Yes, I snore. Some cats snore. Leave me alone.
