Last night I saw that commercial for Temptations Cat Treats where the guy comes to work wearing “cat boots.” You know, the one where the woman compliments his stylish boots, but he reveals “They’re not boots, they’re my cats.” Freakin’ hysterical spot.
At this point, I think it is very important to let you know just how impressionable my child-like brain can be. I am easily influenced by what I see on television.
When I got home last night, after stopping ever so briefly at the local watering hole, I became severely desperate for a pair of cat boots of my very own. Luckily, I thought through the haze of the scotch, I have a cat.
So I rummaged through my supplies in the garage and secured several feet of some high-strength 2″ Velcro. After fumbling with the backing for an eternity, I was finally able to wrap the Velcro securely around my feet and ankles.
All I needed now was the pesky cat. You know, those fur-balls really seem to sense impending danger. Mine hid under the bed, depriving me of my ultimate goal, for what seemed like hours.
Finally I flushed him out through the use of a catnip mouse, a Swiffer Duster, and some crinkly wrapping paper. One look at my Velcro-wrapped feet and it was as if a bolt of static electricity hit the cat.
All his hair stood straight on end, he popped straight up in the air, and took off down the hall, and the chase was on! Spikey-fur cat, followed by drunken old guy with Velcro feet, in turn followed by the dog who thought this was a seriously fun game.
Finally, after knocking most of the lamps over and the pictures off the walls, I caught the cat and slapped him onto my Velcro. Now here is the part where I really need to learn that when people shoot commercials, they are creating the illusion of reality . . . not reality. You’d think I’d know by now, right? They use special effects, and mock-ups, and highly trained (and probably heavily sedated) cats. And I’m sure there is a medic nearby.
Well, my very real cat has very real claws and very real teeth and a very real desire not to become a cat boot.
So cut to the old guy now trying to run back down the hallway on one leg, while the other leg is frantically and spastically trying to shake the hissing ball of fur banshee with its razor claws off his foot, while screaming like a playground kid who has been hit in the head with the metal part of the tetherball. The dog, of course, in hot pursuit because this game just keeps getting better.
So I’m resting today. My bandaged foot is throbbing just as much as my head – a constant reminder that TV is make believe. Except for the Real Housewives of Orange County. And Hillbilly Handfishing.
And the cat? Staring at me from across the room, unharmed, perfectly fine, and no doubt plotting his revenge.