I have a pet cheetah.

Not a Labrador retriever, a tabby, or a goldfish.

A great cat with spots.  And no leash.

It's a nasty, hiss in your face kind of kitty, always skulking behind the couch or gnawing at 
whatever fell out of the garbage can.  Sometimes even my shoes.  While they're still on my 
feet.

But what bothers me the most about my cheetah is that he talks.

"Hey there, boss.  Home from that desk you pretend to do something at all day?" he asks 
me over the rim of his Eddie Bauer frames as I come in the front door.  He's reading the 
latest National Geographic.  The floor is littered with gazelle carcasses.

"Yes," I mumble.  I avoid the droppings he and I will bicker over later, the droppings I'll 
end up scooping into his cat box to try to make my point one more time.  He thinks they 
compliment the carpet.

"You know," he starts, cleaning his glasses.  He does that for effect when he wants to 
make a point. "I was darting through the house today, and couldn't help but notice this 
place is looking a little messy.  Scattered, half-finished projects.  Dishes, clothes, bills.  Are 
we getting a little behind?"

I drop my coat and crack open a beer.  It's the only respite from the beast. "I'm a little busy 
all day.  Maybe you could do something, as fast as you are?"

He shrugs, still half reading the magazine.  He's chuckling at some photos of his brethren 
chasing half-naked South African women. "I'm just a cat, boss.  You're the one with the 
ambition."

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Copyright © 2005 by Calaveras Station and the CSUS English Department.