un chat noir

poor kitty...at least he has a life of luxury still

Un chat noir (in French, the adjective follows the noun). The narrator has a very strange accent...

Great little video, though, thanks! :)

You see?

You SEE!

Another contented cat reads Stendahl and instantly has to lie down. The day is ruined. Already the weeks ahead loom up like deserts where there is nothing to be done but look lost and abandoned, if well attired, and wander aimlessly about.

Ah! The angst! The prison of ennui! The necessity of verbs at the end of sentences put! Small wonder the Germans keep invading..

The eternal suffering of sameness. [notwithstanding that movie Groundhog Day, which was longer but concerned inferior animals...]

Did I say superbly witty flic?

First, let me ruminate... I must catch myself when being too optimistic.

Je t'aime,Henri!

your writing is fun to bounce along with AveryMoore.

Inofuilwell,

Agreed. Excellent point.

In the latter half of the 20th century much debate was absorbed by lamenting the cruelty of being born, the arbitrariness of life, and what people should mean by 'meaning' something in a sense as sensible as President Clinton's worthy doubt about the proper definition of "is."

Underlying this was an intrinsic, and unfounded, belief that while acknowledging subjectivity as the predominant human state, the more morbid we became the more objective we may then claim to be.

Hence our poor Henri, known in Kittenergarten as "intelligent but lazy", now languishes in torpor and luxury. If only he had opposed thumbs surely he could play some mean blues on the left bank, or compose some more gymnopedes. How sad is that?

As Inofuilwell points out, what about protein deficiencies? Or toxins in food and the environment? What can one's perspective be while living on the floor? A new maxim - To live is to avoid feet.

Years ago, working in an Arts group, I was seen reading Hugh Trevor Roper's, "The World Through Blunted Sight." Asked what it was about I simply restated that certain ocular deformations 'could' result in a Modigliani, a Turner, something pointillist, cubist, and so on..

After which I was nearly lynched.

When I moved to the wet coast I noticed that drivers were amazingly inattentive but without knowing why there should be any difference in skill levels.

A fellow I met, a psychologist, talked at length about the coastal 'marine layer' and negative ion distributions. He was right. It was universally understood that after rainfall there is a subjective feeling of deep calm plus a certain amount of elation.

Put people thus incapacitated by meteorology into vehicles which require undistracted attention and undiminished reflexes and up go the insurance rates.

Go figure. That's what clever works of art can stimulate.

Thanks Twodee, thanks Inofuilwell.

More,AveryMoore,More.

Your words have their own special meaning and then there is the inimitable cadence and composition that we all find so hypnotizing.

As an aside, I do wonder if Henri's medical records should be made public?

I am told that while advancements are being made in early detection, malignant melamine is dangerous and possibly life-threatening even to the cheating protein suppliers, especially if the early discovery is by Chinese officials.

Tee-Hee!

Except for having no idea how it might happen I can't respond to an accusation of verbally hypnotizing any self-selecting group of suggestibles. Best to blame them for something overlooked which may occur to me after a brief nap..

As to the more vital issue of Henri and the urgency of proper diagnosis we face an uneven political zeitgeist.

If we believe it is wise and prudent to review the clinical history of an existentialist cat in a funk, how much more imperative is it to review the medical history of a possible President who is more finicky and prone to arching his back in odd moments?

Yet consider the differences.

Henri, if alive 60 years ago, would easily be classified by contemporaries: fine, upstanding, bohemian.

A cat politically disputatious, well read, a jazz and poetry lover, philosophical, a cineaste, in short - a Catnick.

Were he not already furry, there's a hint of a Van Dyke beard, another indication of rebellion to outward form and conformity to looking odd as a means of saying - 'I am not you, whatever that means.'.

Would such a cat consider questions of health or of mortality, bourgeois, tedious, or trivial? Dubious he would care.. "We live. We die. My dish when not empty sometimes is full. Mice are everywhere. It rains."

Instantly you see where he's been and Monty Python reruns echo in the cerebellum.

Conversely, 60 years ago, Senator McCain already was 85, yet still displays no tendency for artistry, or introspection. He rebels not unlike Camus' Meursault, mostly against his own most recent affirmative positions. Blinded in the light of the Arizona sun, declaring his poetic stances unfit for further thought, and lies, all lies. He has moved on...

Between the two individuals frankly I'd rather see a smart and serious minded cat who understands when it is time to be diplomatic, or nap on the White House lawn, as President.

Yes, one has claws, but sees them pragmatically as less than vital to sharpen, while the other excites himself by anticipating bombing runs against the unarmed.

Nap time.

more gold there AveryMoore.

If I could vote "Henri" up again, I would. I envy Stendhal's and AveryMoore's word smithing style.

Avery, not wanting to disturb your nap but still hungry for more guided voyages into the mysterious recesses of Henri's cranium, I offer for consideration the following folksy focus on the possibility of flagrant fiduciary feline failings with the spider.

Not wanting to wreak the wretched wrath of Henri's dark side, I'll offer the question of the hour in Palinese so I kin say some real nasty stuff about Henri an' still be able to wink and smieyel when I'm done.

Good golly there, Ave. (Ya don't mind if I call ya Ave do ya?) There ya go agin, Ave, purtindin ta know the cat's scratchin' an' claw sharpnin' habits while yer takin' a swing at my runnin' mate's love for military ordnance. You betcha, I'm gonna bring it up, Ave! "OHenry" flat killed the spider fer fun. Up in Alaska, which as you know is right next to Russia, we clean what we kill, we cook what we clean, we eat what we cook an' we wear what's left. So there ya go, Ave let's don't give Ohenry a hall pass just yet, ya hear?

That is definitely what my cat sounds like.

Tres bien

ingenious!
this poignantly illustrates the taxonomy of cat philosophy.
i hope to see more!