and a smattering of Spanish and Japanese that I picked up from the help). I only talk to my “owners” daughter, four-year-old Emma, since if she reveals my secret, who would believe her?
I have no desire to end up in a tiny aluminum cage in some government lab undergoing tests for the rest of my nine lives (which by the way is nothing but an old wives’ tale, and I don’t have your tongue either). Anyway, talking to Emma is fun, as she brings me gossip from her pre-school (that Ethan is sweet on her, I believe, and Ashley doesn’t like that fact at all!), and since she has opposable thumbs, can do my bidding, which is getting me Delicious Delicacies from the package whenever I want them (take that, Mr. and Mrs. Riley!) and turn on the television for reruns of America’s Funniest Home Videos (humans are idiots).
So it’s a good life, lying in the sun in some cozy spot, snoozing most of the day away, watching the stupid dog next door try to remember where he buried his bone yesterday and chasing his own tail (I mean really—whoever thought dogs were more intelligent than cats was obviously human! Cats rule and dogs drool. Literally). Ah, I hear Emma arriving home from a tough day at pre-school, so time to dish with the kid and see what mischief I can get her into and escape any blame as I sit silently and look innocent.