  Lately I’ve been wondering what my cat thinks. And no, it’s not one of those drug-induced mental migrations leading nowhere other than to a soon-to-be empty bag of Doritos and a nap. I really wonder what he thinks and how he feels. Roald seems happier than he’s ever been since he arrived in Chicagoland. He has a humongous apartment where he can suspend the rules of civilized behavior and tear-ass around like a maniac, he has lots of windows, and he has much more to look at as there are deciduous trees in the front of the building positively drooping from the weight of birdies and squirrels. In San Diego he had none of these things. (Palm trees don’t support much wildlife, it seems. ) He also loves his new neighborhood.
I’ve started walking him again. (On a leash, and yes, it looks gay, but I don’t care. I don’t want to let him out by himself and end up as a road pizza. ) I’ll take him outside for his walk, and after grazing on grass with the detached laziness of a cow, he’ll explore the outdoor environs of the apartment building, or he’ll floompf himself on the grass and observe his domain like a lion on the African savannah after a hearty meal of wildebeest.
Observing him at home and on his outings, I've learned the following about Roald: · His name for me is “The One Who Takes Care of Me”. · He’s a great chick magnet. · He has a thin veneer of civility, which he randomly suspends from time to time to become a vicious, evil, wild beast. And he likes it. It’s his version of being a sociopath. Roald has no remorse, and he has a flexible sense of morality. Guilt is not in his vocabulary, nor is regret. He is the archetype of the Nietzschean Ubermensch. I admire him. · Everything is all about him. · He is a permanent three-year-old. · He genuinely likes me, but he wishes I spent more time with him and played with him more.
· He is an infallible barometer of human females. In every case where he didn’t like a particular female, she turned out to be a fucked up waste of time or a psycho. I need to listen to his opinion more. It would save me a lot of grief. · His life revolves around sleep, play, and food. That’s it, and that’s all he cares about. · His favorite food is pork. He also likes meatballs. · Catnip has no effect on him. · He knows how to be cute, and he deliberately uses his cuteness to get what he wants. · He doesn’t like being picked up for hug therapy, but he tolerates it since he knows I require it.
· His vocabulary consists of one word, “hey”, but there are infinite tonal shades of “hey”. Depending on the tone, “hey” can mean “Hello”, “I want food”, “I want to play”, “I want attention”, or a million other things. · I am not his owner. We are buds. But I am the senior bud. · He hates dogs. They scare him. He especially hates the bitchy little faggot Yorkie who lives upstairs with the constant “Yip-yip-yip”.
· He doesn’t like other cats, but it’s more disdain than actual hatred. Kind of like the way that the French look down on Americans. I’ve decided that Dogs are Australian, and cats are French. Or snooty northern Italians. · He doesn’t like me talking on the telephone. My guess is that when he sees me talking to an inanimate object, he figures that I’m going insane and will no longer be able to take care of him.
That’s my guess, anyway. · He doesn’t like watching me have sex. I’ve had other cats that were voyeurs, but he isn’t one of them. He did hang out on the bed for a spell a couple of weeks ago when Cheryl and I were making the beast with two backs, but he took off after a few minutes, almost as if he was wondering what the big deal was and left out of boredom. Or maybe Cheryl and I were just making too much noise. Dunno. This is what I understand about Roald, but I also know I have a lot more to learn. He’s a complex critter, and he definitely has a distinct personality. And he’s fun. That’s the most important thing. He's a good fellow. 
