Me and Mr. Jones, that is.
It’s much too strong to let it go now.
But before anyone starts whispering, one key detail: Mr. Jones happens to have a thing goin’ on with every vertebrate he meets.
On the bell curve displaying our cats’ desire to be your very best friend, if Alfred is at one extreme, Mr. Jones is at the other.
No, that’s not quite right. Mr. Jones is approximately one billion bells beyond the extreme.
Mr. Jones wants to be your very very very verybestfriend forever, and he will achieve his goal.
The first tool in his arsenal is that incomparable pair of eyes. Siamese sirs are known for their magical eyes, but Mr. Jones takes those typical baby blues to skies untold. The marbles marveling at you from his ancient face are enough to bowl you down, leaving just a puddle of goo-you behind.
If, by some outrageous chance, you are not slain by Mr. Jones’ gaze, he’s ready with his next tool: his head. Before you’ve had time to make sense of those sensory-overload eyeballs, Mr. Jones has blasted towards you, long legs flying, and his handsome head is headbanging you with the force of forty Metallicas.
But if we’re going to liken Mr. Jones to any 90’s musical phenomenon, naturally it would be Counting Crows. If you’re approximately as ancient as me, you’ll remember what a shining moment it was when their “August and Everything After” came calling our eleven-year-old ears in the nineties. That year, all I wanted for Christmas was a Sony Discman and shimmering CDs from Boyz II Men and Counting Crows. One made me cry out all my prepubescent yearnings along with Wanye and the boyz; one gave my friend Dave and I endless fodder for overanalysis (“Don’t we all need a raincoat at the end of the day?”)
But most importantly, Counting Crows gave us “Mr. Jones.”
And I’ll be danged if it wasn’t written for a certain elderly Siamese cat 25 years down the road.
Mr. Jones, as you may recall, “wishes he was someone just a little more funky.” Fortunately for Mr. Jones and for all of us, “when everybody loves you, ah son, that’s just about as funky as you can be.”
And everyone — and I mean everyone, you and me and Trump and Pelosi and Kanye and Drake and Wile E. Coyote and Roadrunner and everyone who lives on this earth — loves Mr. Jones.
Danielle has the great honor and great burden of hosting this big star in her office. All day, every day, Mr. Jones launches all of his meaningful colors and chatters and concepts into the air around her, which is to say rubs her legs with unflagging vigor. (This is how Mr. Jones looks so good at the age of approximately 116.) All day, every day, gobsmacked citizens of the world puddle into Danielle’s office to see the big, big star.
But a lover as largehearted as Mr. Jones does not confine his affections to a single species. Mr. Jones aims to be a lion of love with cats as well, hurling his entire nutmeg-brown body into cuddle formation beside a befuddled (and half-asleep) Tinora.
She will love him, just as we (all) do.
Mr. Jones has many, many things goin’ on.
It’s no use resisting his charms, kittens. Give yourself over to the joy of Jones-love.
I sure have. Tomorrow we’ll meet, same place, same time.