“…I’m dreaming of some wet cat food,
Just like the kind they served last night.”
My dear friends, I’m not sure what has come over me lately. You know I’ve been acting nicer, but I didn’t feel nicer. I thought it was all an act. But there’s something about the season – everyone’s all sing-y and happy-y, and nice-y – and I think it might be rubbing off on me. Not only have I voluntarily refrained from causing any trouble; not only have I been cuddling with every person I can; I think I may have found my muse. My voice. My calling. At least for this month.
I, friends, have been humming tunes to myself of late. I hear people do it all the time, and I have not been able to stop myself from singing along. I am as mystified as you are.
Because I love you so, and because you are my people, I wanted to share with you my latest arrangement.
Picture it: an empty stage. Into the spotlight steps a debonair, tuxedo-clad gent (me!!) The orchestra strikes up a tune (apparently some person “borrowed” my composition and called it Silver Bells. Hmph.)
Hunger makes you feel emotional.
It can bring grumbling, or thoughts of ocean krill.
Whatever happens, or what may be,
Here is what dinnertime means to me…
Jersey highways, busy highways,
Lead you to Tabby’s Place.
In the air there’s a scent of flaked tuna.
People squee-ing,
Kitties preening,
Meeting gatos, et chats.
And in every far corner you’ll hear
Tabby’s cats, Tabby’s cats,
It’s time for people to feed me.
Ring-a-ling, hear that “ding”?
Soon it will be dinner time.
Strings and cat treats,
Feathers, soft seats,
Blinking lights are quite keen.
Won’t you rush to bring me all my treasures?
Hear those treats crunch
As I nom-munch.
This is Boots’s big scene.
And amid all this snacking you’ll hear…
Tabby’s cats, Tabby’s cats,
It’s time for people to feed me.
Ring-a-ling, hear that “ding”?
Soon it will be dinner time.
For the record, folks, I am a baritone. I know I don’t need to remind you that I’m charming, with a brooding demeanor and a twinkle in my eye, and I’m always a sharp dresser. I’m every girl’s dream, really. Now I just need to find a good stage name. Let’s face it, “Boots Rosenberg” sounds a little like a two-bit thug. That might have worked before, but not for this gig.
My dear friends, I hope that your holidays are filled with love, joy, and cats singing standards.
Much love,
Boots