Cato for President

I'm too sexy for...... Cato's Catwalk Contest

  "I shake my little tushie on the catwalk." Right Said Fred

Many spend years trying to figure out how to achieve that walk. The effect that placing one foot behind the other produces on the fashion runways around the world. Now you can use your supermodel swagger to strut your stuff to win big in the....
 
I'm Too Sexy......Cato's Catwalk Contest!

To enter, send in your photo of you walking the catwalk with your high-cheek-bones and your natural hauteur. Whether you are as black as night, fiery as the sun, bald and beautiful, notch-eared, one-eyed, sweet or shifty there is a place for all cats on the walk.

Deadline for entry is May 15. Digital photos of you may show you 'au natural', photoshopped or you may dress up in your supermodel best. Make sure your photo is a show stopper!
 
Email your entries to creatures (at) mindspring (dotcom). The first place winner will receive a $25 gift certificate to Doctors Fosters and Smith online pet emporio. Two runner's up will receive $10 certificates. All felines will have the opportunity to vote after entries are in. 

Tyra Banks of America's Next Top Model will judge the poise and polish section of the contest. World-reknown digital artist, A2, will judge photo manipulation entries. Cato, the next President of the United States, although not eligible to win, will be on hand to award gift certificates to the lucky "I'm Too Sexy" winners.

" 'Cos I'm a model, you know what I mean? And I do my little turn on the catwalk...." Right Said Fred

Gettin' high on Saturday morning

Presidential peep toes

While I've been waiting for my portion of the economic stimulus package, I've been shopping.  With the slowdown in the election process and the economy, there's not much else one can do.

My friend Marilyn says, when she feels down, she tries on a few dresses and her perspective returns. Marilyn is a big girl. She struts the street in her white and black stripes and doesn't take crap from anyone. That's why I like to take her along as security at my many public appearances.

Marilyn took me shopping last week as a sort of pick me up. We started at Inga's.

Inga is a feline fashion consultant. She also looks like Shirley Maclaine . Her ability to dress prominent kitty celebs is renown.  Garfield consulted her on his coat color just before he made it big.

Inga works out of a storefront on Lincoln Street in Calistoga. The facade of number 351 is painted purple with a little inset green door. Marilyn pushed this aside and led me into a completely white room. It was so brightly lit, I felt I was going for an interrogation rather than a consultation, much less a fashion consultation.

"This will make you feel better," Marilyn patted me as we stood waiting.

I was an impatient shopper. "How long will it take the U.S. Congress to figure out we are in a recession and $300 isn't going to pay the bills?" This I addressed to Marilyn. Then to the room I said:" Extend unemployment for those that have been forced to the sidelines of business. Extend a lifeline for those poor writers, editors and public relations flacks that are the first to be pushed out when the bottom line begins to contract. These poor folks won't be able to go out and shop at all." I was beginning to spin out of control. Marilyn took my hand and directed my gaze to the upper corner of the room.

What happened next was hard to explain. Inga's smile slowly developed in the corner. Her laughter could be heard throughout the room. After several seconds the outlines of her tail could be seen. Soon the whole of her body was hovering above us.

"Ah Cato," she giggled and glided towards us gracefully. "I can see the frustration in your face," she whispered in my ear. To the room she said: "You need a facelift."

I bristled at the thought. Mine was a perfectly good face. I was about to say this to her when she popped a turban on my head. Then in rapid succession she proffered a fedora, a derby and a baseball cap.

"Something presidential, please." I just wasn't the hat type.

Inga was a ginger kitty. Her green eyes were large and sparkled with brilliant gold flecks. She always seemed to be in motion, but all that moved on her body now was her tail. She cocked her head to look at me and tapped her toes.

As she did this clothing appeared around us. A gold Armani suit jacket with deep brown velvet pants hung on the wall. Next shiny stormtrooper boots and a brown leather bomber jacket appeared. I slipped into the boots, but they made me stumble and trip. I already had boots of my own, so they gave me no real fashion flair.

It was then that Inga squealed. "I know Cato...peep toes. It will bring you new perspective on the world." She spread her paws and there appeared hundreds of peep toe shoes. For the next three hours I tried them on. I felt very different when I was done.

There were peep-toe wedgies and peep-toe pumps. I particularly liked the Giuseppe Zonotti's that Inga described as "a work of art." I thought they went well with my black and creme fur. There were platform shoes, cone heeled shoes and hundreds of stockings to go with them. I drew the line on corsets. Althought when I turned sideways in the mirror and looked at my svelt belly, I was tempted to add one to my purchase.

I came away from Inga's with a renewed sense of what I stood for in my presidency. Change based on sound fashion principals. A president should be a leader on all levels -- in thought, deed, word and shoes. I could continue my campaign as long as I wore my peep toes. It was with this renewed sense of civic responsibility and the addition of several several inches to my height, that I headed out to give my next speech on economic development.

Forgive me all my sins

I love Bret Michaels. On most Sunday evenings, you'll find me sitting on the couch watching the continuing saga of Bret's Rock of Love 2. The search for his own true love.

My campaign manager says this stuff will rot my brain. But so far, my brain seems intact.

Whether it's Bret, Flavor Flav or Gene Simmons it seems that aging musicians with hair problems are all the rage. Surround them with a bevy of women, and gravity-defying boob jobs and I am captivated along with the rest of the viewing public.

Reality shows bring out the best in American culture. They help the audience forget that the financial underpinnings of the country are collapsing and the only people who are going to get a bailout already have enough money to survive more than 10 years if they hit the skids. 

But it's really the bad hair that fascinates me. What is under Bret's scarf? How does Flavor Flav get his hair to stand on end like he just undergone electroconvulsive therapy? Is that Gene's real hair or is it a misguided attempt to affix a squirrel to his skull?

All I say is Rock of Love 2 is good rollicking fun. And, it keeps my campaign manager still long enough so that I can sit on her lap undisturbed.

One evening we were sitting quietly together, watching former Playboy Bunny Kristy Joe Muller work her subtle magic on Bret. It was such a scintillating episode, so rousing my campaign manager had fallen asleep, snoring slightly with her mouth open. My mind wandered, I was thinking about my proposal for the next great reality show -- CATS.....The voice over begins "CATS is filmed on location .......all suspects are innocent until proven guilty...."

I slipped into a full nod, breathing in rhythm with my campaign manager. Suddenly, I felt myself flying. The wind rushing over my fur, I looked out on a brown and dusty land sprinkled with tiny settlements. From the sky I could see a long and winding path covering hundreds of miles. My perspective allowed me to see the thousands of people who had trod that path with devotion in their hearts and the great expectation of salvation at the end of the journey. Something whispered to me to attend to this phenomenon. I descended to the path and stood all alone for several seconds taking in my surroundings.

My halo was a bit tight. So tight in fact, it brushed my ears making me twitch. I couldn't figure out who or what I was suppose to be until an old woman came running around the corner. She stopped when she spied me. Grabbing my hand she whispered: "San Catio you must come away from the middle of the road!" Then she pulled me up the stone steps of an imposing cathedral. We ran through the door and up the nave. She deposited me in a confessional box and before I knew it a screen next to me slid open and a penitent said: "Bless me father for I have sinned."

I looked around to see who the fellow was addressing and realized the only one in the box was me. So this is how it was, I could go from television viewer to Saint in one short snooze. I had no idea how transformative the Rock of Love 2 could be. I was stunned.

The penitent continued: "Bless me father. For 19 years, I was the most beloved economist on Wall Street. These are my sins." I cut interest rates repeatedly in the 1990s and was personally responsible for the doubling of house prices in Florida and California in just five years. I made the show, Flip This House possible. I encouraged the American people, who are financially illiterate, to refinance if they owned homes, so that they could take a nice vacation. I encouraged people who did not have homes, to purchase them with nothing down. I led them to believe there would be no consequences to this practice.

"I precipitated the collapse of most of the respected banking institutions in modern America. Throwing caution to the wind, I allowed every American to believe they could afford the American Dream whether or not he had two nickels to rub together."

Respected financial institutions? I looked hard at the little bald man with glasses. 'Yet another bad hair problem,' I thought to myself. I've seen this guy before, but where? And then I remembered.... but as soon as I remembered the screen on the other side of the box slid open.

"Uh, bless me father for I have sinned. I've, uh, never confessed before, in fact, I'm not Catholic, but I feel I need to atone for my sins." The Arkansas accent was so strong I was blown back against my seat. He continued drawling out his sins slowly. "I pushed the dream of universal home ownership at the American public and encouraged individuals with low incomes and poor credit ratings to seek mortgages from predatory lenders. I felt the market was wide open and they way to lift everyone up was to give them the ability to own their own homes."

"But that wasn't all President Clinton was it?" I snapped at him.

But before he could answer, the confessional slot slid open and again I was faced with a...ah....penitents, dozens of them. I realized I was looking at the United States Congress, Democrats and Republicans a like, crowded into the confessional cheek by jowl.

"Bless us father for we have sinned," they whispered quite contrite.

"Yes?" I was expectant. This would be good.

"These are our sins. We created a government monopoly on mortgages through Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac. In essence we forced bankers to grasp at the dregs of mortgages when the housing boom was on. All that was left to them were jumbo loans and bad-quality debt."

"I doubt banks were forced," I said sympathetically.

"I am sure there are other sins you could confess to? Perhaps the fact that you have done nothing to help homeowners who took on too much debt?" They looked puzzled by my questions. Ah well, no matter, most of the Congress still lives in caves.

But before I could speak, I was interrupted by the confessional screen sliding open again.

"Bless me father for I have sinned."

"Yes?" I was losing patience it seemed everyone had a hand in this thing. I was feeling left out.

"My sins include: playing bridge through the creation of more and more exotic sub prime mortgages in my office. I was out of touch. The office bets got riskier and riskier. Our hedge funds fell while I was on the golf course. I admit I had so much fun playing, I didn't want to ever sit at a desk again."

Now I had one of the real culprits in my sights. "Mr. Cayne does $2.5 trillion in toxic debt, which brought your firm to bankruptsy mean anything to you?" I asked, sucking on a Montecristo cigar.

"How about the fire sale of Bear Stearns for $1 billion (one-fifthteenth the market price) to JP Morgan Chase. Mean anything to you, Mr. Cayne?" I laughed and choked on the smoke. "Does a bailout by the American people mean anything to you? I guess you got yours, so it doesn't matter."

Then the real horror of whom the next penitent to show would be. The American public -- their motley manifestation, their overly-friendly ignorance, the teddy bears of the world who stumbled over their wealth every time they rose from the couch to turn on reality programming. The American public, who thought owning a home was a good investment, particularly if the value more than doubled every two years. They had wealth in their sights and who could tell them, really tell them, this idea was a disaster. Who could tell them the shadow banking system was collapsing and was going to take them along?

I couldn't take any more. I wasn't saint material. I wanted to wring the necks of all these penitents. I couldn't forgive a one.

That's when she grabbed me. "San Catio you must come with me." She whipped me out of the confessional, almost yanking my arm out of its socket.

"Hey, wait a minute," I was gasping for air. "I ain't no saint." Despite her short stature, the old woman was making like a greyhound at the track. As she raced ahead, I sailed out behind her, flapping in the wind. She looked back at me over her shoulder and in that moment I recognized her.

We took flight. We spun in the air together, head over tale over head over tail. Flying across the sky towards the moon and the sun. I recognized those eyes, the kinky whiskers and milky tongue -- it was The Great Cat.

When I landed, I was sitting in the pew of a decrepit church. The pew tilted forward having lost one leg of four. I dug my claws into the wood so I would not slip to the floor.

The Great Cat stood before me, the pulpit before him. His eyes were closed in prayer. He was regal and totally at ease. He opened the book before him and took a breath to speak.

"I am not a saint," I said without thinking, interrupting him before he could open his mouth.

His deep blue eyes shot me a look of contempt.

"O Cato, don't you know that it is your responsibility as a feline to listen to the sins of man? To listen to his confessions? This is what cats do, they listen with unconditional love and they purr out their absolution," he fixed me once again with his eyes.

"You have managed to sidestep your responsibility. You have been too opinionated and sought recognition in the world of humans as a presidential candidate. For God's sake, you have taken up watching television -- reality TV at that." He pounded his fist on the pulpit and his eyes flashed lighting up the growing darkness outside. There was a flash of lightening and thunder. I could smell rain coming. I was afraid.

He leaned over the pulpit at me, his eyes a sullen royal blue. "I know you do not feel up to the challenge, but you are inherently a saint, all cats are. It is time to take up your halo and offer succor to the human race."

"No!" I was shocked, outraged, I spit and revealed my claws. "They, they are evil. They are driven by greed. They would walk over one another to win at all costs even if the prize is just a ribbon, a certificate, or a promise wealth in the future. I will not offer these morons comfort."

"But you must if you are to attain enlightenment," he said simply and then was quiet.

I reflected on this for several seconds and then looked back again at him. His eyes were fixed on the tiny screen of his Blackberry. I leaned over his shoulder to look. Stock prices scrolled across the top of the screen as he executed a sell order through his broker, E-CAT.  He stared intently, his claws flying unnaturally over the  tiny keyboard. "There!" His eyes snapped up at mine. "I've shorted the financial sector and made enough for the month. Let's dine out. I'll worry about how to pay the taxes later."

I followed him out of the destroyed church and found myself sitting on the banquet of an all-you-can eat buffet. Pink shrimp the size of my head was piled on a plate before me. I took one and dipped it in cocktail sauce; shoved it in my mouth and swallowed it whole. "Not much better than this." I sighed with satisfaction.

"What?" Again he was occupied with his blackberry, his claws flying over the keyboard.

"Not much better than this," I repeated.

Once again he fixed with the glare of his blue eyes. "You do realize that this is all a delusion? That it arises from your mind, your consciousness and then dissolves back into itself? Everything you think is real is just in your mind. The emotions too, all in your mind. Lose all your money; make millions and live happily ever after; retreat to the safety of your own home; the stability of the economy, it all begins in right here," he tapped his head. "Here!" he thrust the Blackberry into my paws.

I found myself leaning on the edge of a craps table in a smoky casino. Carefully, I placed it the Blackberry on the Pass Line. The shooter had a hot hand. He rolled the dice and I won right away on a seven. I bet again.

"Five!" The stickman screamed above the noise of the crowd. We were all sweating. The shooter fanned himself with his tie and then grabbed the dice and tossed them again.

"Ten," the stickman was enthusiastic, pushed the losing bets aside. Everybody at the table was yelling.

The numbers kept coming. I waited for the five, for the big payoff, but nothing happened. The tension mounted and I looked hard at the shooter, his blue eyes intent on the dice in his left hand.

He tossed them hard against the wall of the table and they rolled and rolled, over and over and over becoming larger and larger in my field of vision. I began to tumble with the dice. I heard the stickman yell "Five."

"Winner!" I shouted over the crowd as I floated away.

I must of lost consciousness for several seconds because when I awoke, I found myself in the confessional. Before I could shove my winnings into my robe pockets, a penitent slide the screen aside.

"Bless me father for I have sinned. I have never confessed before."

I could not see the penitent at all. The booth was dark. His voice soft, almost sibilant, but still pleasing to the ear. Now that I was a winner, I felt more capable than ever of taking up my saintly duties. I would offer absolution to this sinner, no matter what. No matter how disgusting the sin. No matter how petty the crime. No matter how trivial the mind behind the offense.

"This is my sin. I believe my mind is perfect. I believe within my consciousness lies all treasure. I believe that despite the racing of my thoughts, there is something beyond this reality, an awareness that resides in eternity that has intelligence and wisdom. I believe we are all party to this inner god......" He tailed off and was silent.

"My son, how is this a sin?" I said.

"I do not believe in any of this earthly pain. I do not believe in financial hardship, greed, heartache, ownership or ill health. I believe all these exist only within the mind. I am sorry San Catio, but you cannot give me absolution for seeing this reality. There is something beyond the shadow banking system and its vast wealth. There is something beyond bad hair. There is something beyond the roll of the dice...."

I woke abruptly and found myself laying on the sofa on my back. The TV was still on and curiously, Bret Michaels looked 10 years younger from my upsidedown position on the couch. I rolled over and discovered I was laying a top a stack of chips and a Blackberry.

Pray with San Catio de Calistoga.

Mr. extra fecstra-licious thing

"I’m Mr. American Dream since I was 17
Don’t matter if I step on the scene
They still gon put pictures of my derrière in the magazine
You want a piece of me?
You want a piece of me…
I’m Mr. 'Lifestyles of the rich and famous'
(You want a piece of me)
I’m Mr. 'Oh my God that Cato's shameless'
(You want a piece of me)
I’m Mr. 'Extra! fecstra-licious thing!
(You want a piece of me)
I’m Mr. 'he’s too big now he’s too thin'
(You want a piece of me)" Piece of Me, Britney Spears

"Chia Pets are grown by applying moistened seeds of the chia (salvia hispanica), the sprout-like plant from whose common name the Chia Pet gets its name." Wikipedia

I lay here on the bottom shelf of the bookcase thinking about my presidency. I had such great hopes for my campaign and now it has all gone awry. It's been a dizzying free-fall for my campaign since Rudy lost in Florida.

First Facebook kicked me off for impersonating a cat running for president of the United States. When the Facebookarazzi got a hold of this news, they let me have it. There were photos of me laying on the beach in Rio my belly flapping over the waistband of a red Speedo. The photos were splashed across the front of Vanity Cat magazine.

This threw me into a depression. I had prepared a commercial to run during the superbowl that featured Angelina Jolie endorsing me. (The way she pronounced 'Cato' gave me shivers.) I was going to wait until the weekend before Super Tuesday to start the national ad campaign. But the Facebook Speedo scandal stopped me in my tracks. I scrapped all my plans and retreated to the bottom shelf.

I hate to admit that I had a relapse in my obsessive-compulsive disorder. I began to scritch and scratch in earnest. I could not stop it. I was captured on video writhing under my own claws. That's when Dr. Phil showed up unannounced.

"Cato," he said in that big drawling Oklahoma accent. "You need help!" His bald head reflected so much light the shine woke me up. "I want you to come on my show as the most spoiled and entitled cat in the world."

I should have been flattered, but instead I was suspicious."Who told you about me?" I asked him in my low growling voice.

"I've followed your campaign from the beginning." Dr. Phil was lying through his teeth!

I unsheathed my claws and the psychological idiot began to stutter. "Well actually your campaign manager emailed me and suggested an intervention."

He showed me the email.

"My Siamese cat wants me to foot the bill for his presidential bid in 2008. This is costing me millions of dollars to educate him, give him public speaking lessons, buy a closet full of suits, and set him up with eligible first ladies. He has managed to graduate from the Hass School of Business with an MBA, but he won't go to work. He says he has to get ready for the push to win the highest office in the land. He spends his days on Facebook networking and hosting 'fake' parties for his campaign. He also has his own blog and now he is making videos. If he has so much talent, why isn't he making money? I am a laughing stock in my small town. This obsession of his has caused difficulties with my friends and family. I am a single mother and my family thinks I have lost my mind. Sincerely, "

"It was a plea for help and I could not look away," he said.

I knew what it was a plea for. I pushed open the door of the bookcase. "I'm surprise you didn't have her committed sooner. I'm ready to sign the papers," I said. That's when he stuffed me in the bag.

The screams of cats are always ignored. Really. How many times have you witnessed a cat howling at the top of his lungs? Did you do anything? No one came to my assistance. Dr. Phil had his way with me.

You may have seen the segment. I was pulled from the bag just as the cameras came on. My fur was standing on end. I was grumpy and disgusted with Dr. Phil. My campaign manager, the traitor, sat next to me smiling and shaking her head.

"Yes, he is the most spoiled and entitled cat in America," she purred.

Then Dr. Phil showed a video of me campaigning across the country. He showed some of my most intimate moments on the bus -- the times when I was hungry and ill-tempered. The time, I told a potential voter that her lap was just too bony (she didn't take it well) to sit on. The time, I kissed a baby and then wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. He'd edited everything so that I came across as self-centered and demanding.

The audience sat stared at me shaking their heads. Can you imagine 250 middle-aged women with too many highlights looking at you like you were a bad cat; their heads shinning like a million-watt disco ball under the studio lights? It was like I'd taken acid. My head felt like exploding.

"You've got a real problem on your hands," he smiled at my campaign manager and sneered at me. The audience laughed. They laughed at me. The more they laughed, the more frightened I felt. I looked at their lips and the teeth beneath. Would they eat me? I began to scratch and lick. I was losing control. The hair on my legs was gradually giving away to skin. How far could I go with the over grooming until I hit bone?

And just as suddenly the feeling of panic left me. I knew what to do. I was galvanized. I summoned all my wits and pulled myself together.

"Excuse me, Dr. Phil?" Neither was expecting this. I figured they were waiting on me to cave and promise I would reform. Or they were waiting for me to deny their allegations in front of everyone. Well, I wouldn't give them that satisfaction.

I pulled the prototype from my backpack and handed it to Dr. Phil. He held it up puzzled. I had him right where I wanted.

"What the.....," he said somewhat astonished. "What is this?"

"Cato Chia Pet, part of my campaign efforts," I snapped several photos of Dr. Phil holding my head covered with little sprouts. I slapped another into the hands of my campaign manager and she held it reluctantly. Then the documentary crew burst through the doors with cameras at the ready capturing it all for my upcoming TV spot selling the "Cato Presidential Campaign Chia Pet."

I turned towards the camera and said :"Dr. Phil, I know that running up more than $2.5 million in debt to finance my 2008 bid to be president is unfair to my campaign manager. That's why I'm stepping above the fray and leading us out of this mess."

"I've taken part of the money and developed my own Chia Pet that will not only advertise my campaign, it will add income to my family."

I turned to my campaign manager and looked into her eyes lovingly. "Sweetie, I'm doing it for you."

The video crew signaled that they had captured all they needed for the commercials and left.

You may have already seen the dramatic infomercials. The first and most powerful image the viewer sees is Dr. Phil holding my grass covered head with a smile of delighted. The voice over intones that the Cato Chia Pet has been fully tested by Dr. Phil who says he bought it after treating Cato live on TV for his mental problems. "It's hard in this day and age for a presidential candidate to "get real" about his problems much less the nation's. Just look at George Bush and the damage he has done to himself and his country in Iraq. The invasions of Iraq began as an obvious mental health issue for George and progressed into an international fiasco."

"It's really hard to take back stupid," Dr. Phil says. "George never will, but Cato has done it!"

You too can own a piece of me and further my recovery back to sanity. For just $19.95 plus shipping and tax you can have my head sitting on your mantel, kitchen counter or desk at work. 

But wait, if you act in the next 3 minutes you can also get the Cato Chia Pet for just $9.99 and a Cato Ab Chair Deluxe. Cato's Ab chair will help you "focus your workouts on strengthening the all-important core muscles including the abdominal and back muscles where our functional strength originates." And if you've got a big belly like I do it might help you to go from stupid fat to presidential in 12 easy steps. Yes folks I am giving you the ability to be chief commander for just climbing into my Ab chair and working your way to the top post in the nation! Try it risk free for 30 days..... if you aren't completely satisfied......three easy payments....but wait!

CHAT: He's hotter than Bond and cooler than Bullitt

The season is all in your mind

I have my bags packed and the truck is loaded with my entertainment center. My footie pajamas are folded right next to my toothbrush and catnip. I will be staying at the historic Calistoga Pet Clinic Spa for a week. I am taking my trainer and hope to shed a few pounds to fit into the pants I purchased at Lord's Ace Hardware in Indianola, Iowa during my campaign tour. The only thing I am missing is a personal chef. I hate to trust my meals to just anyone. If you have any suggestions, let me know. I don't want to starve to death! I want to wish you all the best during the holiday season and, as The Great Cat says: "Just relax and breath, it's all in your mind!"

The Book of Revelations as a forecast of things to come

Cato arrived in Iowa to face a tumultuous welcome on Sunday evening. His arrival at the last minute for the Iowa Caucus poses a threat to Democrat front runners Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama.

Although he is currently polling zero percent within the state, Cato's campaign believes his entry into the race will become a rallying point for Iowa's disillusioned opposition and set the stage for an overnight shift in the political scene. "The campaign this year is so dull, even a controversial candidate as Cato is will be seen as a huge relief to the electorate," says campaign manager, Adrienne Asher.

Cato's unimpeded entry into the history books as the first Feline Party of God candidate to qualify for the caucus stood in stunning contrast to the last time he attempted to enter Iowa state politics. His running mate, champion hog Crinkles, was sold at auction and butchered before the two could put in an appearance together on national TV. Declaring that "It is a travesty that more vice presidents are eaten by Iowans than in any other state," he set up a national Iowa boycott right after Crinkles slaughter, which has largely been ignored by reporters and other politicians.

Thousands of supporters of the Feline Party of God whistled and cheered Cato as he entered the lobby area of the airport. They hoisted him onto their shoulders and swept him through the ranks of wary Des Moines riot police officers.

"I have come to save this country and this state from the unending boredom of the 2008 presidential candidates," Cato said from the top of a yellow cab -- the only spot that allowed the crowd to see him (the candidate is very small standing only 15 inches from the ground).

"I have come to fulfill the responsibility I have been given by my fellow felines to lead the human race in a positive direction." But few in the crowd could hear him, so loud was the chanting and cheering from supporters "Long live, Long live Cato!" they shouted.

Cato had feared that his attempt to return to the state would be met with a massive police crackdown and that he would be deported back to California for his religions beliefs. Yet in a sign of the rapidly changing political environment in Iowa just six weeks before the caucuses, the governor of California, Arnold Schwarzenegger, a bitter rival in the recent gubernatorial elections, interceded on his behalf with Iowa State Governor and Democrat, Chet Culver. Culver had feared if Cato had entered the state, he would cause a culture war and there would be rioting in the streets by conservative Christians.

"Cato is a gentleman and a scholar and needs to be heard in this election," Schwarzenegger said. "No matter that his religion is not mainstreams, he is a formidable foe. I also agreed with him, the human race has had its chance and now is the time for another species to take up the mantle and lead us into the 21st Century." With that statement the former competitive weight lifter committed to campaign for Cato.

Cato's unimpeded return to Iowa suggests that religious fundamentalist Christians are resigned to his political comeback as the only representative of a religion that does not believe in God or Jesus Christ. Fundamentalist leader Pat Robertson mounted a national campaign to have Cato deported as a demonic force. Robertson declared that Cato should be bared from the United States because we do not accept The Great Cat as anything but an idol and a myth.

In response Cato, who spent 30 years of his life meditating on The Great Cat in cave in the Himalayas, said: "I believe in an America where the separation of church and state is absolute, where no Feline Party of God ayatollah would tell the president (should he believe in The Great Cat) how to act, and no Protestant minister would tell his parishioners for whom to vote; where no church or church school is granted any public funds or political preference; and where no cat is denied public office merely because his religion differs from the president who might appoint him or the people who might elect him."

"I believe in an America that is officially neither Christian, Jewish or Muslim; where no public official either requests or accepts instruction on public policy from, in my case, The Great Cat; the religious right or the National Council of Churches or any other ecclesiastical source; where no body seeks to impose its will directly or indirectly upon the general populace or the public acts of its officials; where religious liberty is so indivisible that an act against one religion is treated as an act against all."

"While this year it may be a devotee of The Great Cat against who the finger of suspicion is pointed, in other years it has been, and may be someday be again, a Jew -- or a Quaker or a Unitarian or a Baptist. Today I may be the victim, but tomorrow it may be you -- until the whole fabric of our harmonious society is ripped at a time of great national peril."

"I believe in an America where religious intolerance will someday end. This represents the kind of presidency in which I believe --- a great office that must neither be humbled by making it the instrument of any one religious group, nor tarnished by arbitrarily withholding its occupancy from the members of any one religious group. I believe in a president whose religions views are his own private affair, neither imposed by him upon the nation, or imposed by the nation upon him as a condition of holding that office. This is the kind of America I believe in."

With those remarks he set off on a whirlwind campaign trip through Warren County. His first stop was Carlisle, the birthplace of his grandmother. The small town of 3,500, feted the diminutive presidential candidate and his running mate, The Great White Hope, a largely silent fixture at his side. Both felines ate plates of turkey, dressing and cranberry Jell-O salad, while they met with the parishioners of the Carlisle Christian Church. Both felines worked the crowd shaking hands, answering questions, sitting on laps and kissing babies.

After lunch Cato toured the Heartland Coop, which is the 24th largest in the nation and can load 100 railroad cars full of field corn in an 8-hour period.  The Great White Hope met with local felines to field questions about the campaign and to hunt small animals with the large group of farm cats that crowded the Farm Bureau.

Afterwards both candidates were subdued when they were once again met by overwhelming crowds of supporters that lined the roads to the Des Moines Airport. "I ate too many Christmas cookies with red hots. I have a stomach ache and I need to go to bed," whispered The Great White Hope, an almost unknown individual.

Cato is seen by his supporters as a savior from the increasing repetitive nature of the 2008 presidential campaign. "It's gotten so boring, I was thinking I wouldn't go on the third (of January) and maybe just stay home and watch the Orange Bowl," said Vernie Killian, rural Carlisle farmer. "But that Cato is a character. He's funny like a stand-up comedian and when he talks to you, he sits right on your lap and listens close. I feel he really understands me. He makes me feel good again about being human. So I want to get all my friends and family out to support him on caucus night."

An editorial in the Des Moines Register declared that Cato was the most formidable challenge that any of the mainstream presidential candidates faced. Register political columnist, David Yepsen, stated that none of the candidates had yet faced such and "erudite and eloquent opponent. "As an American feline, his understanding of the issues facing this nation is profound. He can talk knowledgeably about the Farm Bill, something that is dear to Iowan's hearts, about God, corn and soybeans, the need to fix potholes, and the need to preserve our precious environment."

"After he sat in my lap and took my questions, I became a true believer. He's different. He's not afraid to speak his mind. I agree with him, the human race has lost its way and needs help. I think Cato is the best choice for president," said the 46-year-old Yepsen.

Still there are factions within Iowa that would see Cato stopped at all costs. "He is a sinner and he is not human There is something evil about Cato and I want to see his campaign and his supporters investigated for un-American activity," said Tamara Scott, Iowa State Director of Concerned Women for America. "God will send him to hell for his statements and his beliefs."

When asked about Scott's reaction to his campaign efforts in Iowa, Cato said :"Well, if I believed that the bible was the word of God -- actually if I believed that the Book of Revelations was a forecast of things to come, then I would believe in fire and brimstone and hell. If I believed that, I would probably go to hell to get away from the Iowa winter. But, as I do not believe in hell, it is impossible for me to go there. I guess I will have to continue to wear my fur coat as I travel the state." With that bold statement, he flicked his tail, smiled and walked away from the cameras.

Some of Cato's statements were taken from a speech given by John F. Kennedy on September 12, 1960 to the Greater Houston Ministerial Association.  Campaign photo by Adrienne Asher.

Ready for new leadership?

The luckiest cat in the world

I was lying on the sofa watching Ang Lee's first wuxia film, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Like most entertainment that humans find interesting, I found it more edifying to watch the film upside down as it seemed to stimulate something in my hypothalamus. There was something about the martial art movements of Zhang Ziyi and Chow Yun-Fat that reminded me of sweet, succulent birdies. I began to drool and twitch.

The seat of all feline killing resides in the hypothalamus located in the middle of the brain. Natural predatory behavior is hardwired and refined by loving feline mothers who teach by example. My own mom brought birds and rats to me in my youth -- alive and dead --and showed me how to efficiently kill so that the body would be intact. I lay on the sofa, my pot belly swaying to the action as swords blazed and bodies whirled and kicked. I could almost taste the blood. It is not enough to just live, to have the opportunity to kill is one of life's little treasures held as sacred by all kitties.

Like a Jade Fox, I have been known to leap into the air 15 feet above me to catch a bird that just happened to be flying by. In some of my legendary feats, witness have seen me dash to the top of very tall tree to grab hold of the tail feathers of a barn owl. Knowing no fear, I have taken on a 13-year-old street-fighting peacock and, in this case, lost -- the big bully got the better of me. I can still taste his colors.

I have also survived the potshots of a would be assassin, a next door neighbor and Vietnam vet, who took it upon himself to defend the neighborhood birds from cats. At least five cats had been killed by his gun before I reached the age to roam. My campaign manager discussed the peril of walking on to the property of this nut. I took her advice and stayed away. Finally he died of liver cancer several years into my tenure on the farm. The whole neighborhood had a celebratory cocktail party. I took it upon myself to kill my very first birdie on his front lawn. I ate the bird whole just after its heart stopped. The memory is indescribable.

As I lay on my back, I thought about the very high profile court case of a cat assassination in Texas. The murderer, a dedicated birder and founder of the Galveston Ornithological Society, was accused of murdering, in cold blood, a cat stalking endangered shorebirds. James M. Stevenson, a self-admitted repeat offender, says he killed many cats on his own property. "I made the choice of who dies, the cat or the bird," he says in a Wall Street Journal article published on September 1. In 2005 he decided to go after an alleged feral cat that was stalking piping plovers, but this time he shot the cat on public property.

One thing the media has missed in this court case is that in all 50 states it is illegal  to intentionally kill a cat. Anti-cruelty laws apply to all cats, whether they are a pet, abandoned, lost or feral. Unfortunately, In this case the judge declared a mistrial because the jury could not come to a unanimous conclusion that Stevenson had committed animal cruelty by murdering the cat. Now, no cat is safe from bird-loving gunslingers.

Birding societies came out of the woodwork to defend Stevenson's actions. Many of these organizations want cat owners to keep their cats indoors to protect wild birds. Those of us who were born and raised in barns miss the entire point of these efforts. There are whole campaigns out there mounted to keep cats from ever going outdoors as if we are the sole thing responsible for wild bird demise.

One hates to think that raw cat instinct is the sole source of the decimation of a whole species of birds and yet, I would suggest it was good eating for all that took part. This is just one of the cruel jokes that Mother Nature plays on society. I hate to think that eventually these campaigns to teach cats how to do something else other than kill would be successful. PETA has a campaign to shift cats away from eating a protein diet to eating a strictly vegetarian diet.  I find the whole idea hilarious.

While I lay on my back contemplating a nice rejoinder to email to the websites of some of these organizations, the Great Cat suddenly appeared on the pillow next to me.

"Taking on politics this evening, Cato?" He purred and his tail flicked right and left so rapidly, so completely rivaling the movement of a bird that for an instant, I thought to pounce on him, but then rethought the impulse. Attacking the Great Cat would probably get me killed or worse.

He smiled at me as if reading my mind. "All that you think, all that you see, the film on TV, the birdies, Mr. Stevenson and his problems, even those societies that would shut you indoors are nothing but pure consciousness. These come from your consciousness. They are reflected what is in your own mind."

He arched his eyebrows and his whiskers fanned out to frame his head. For a moment all I could see were his big golden eyes boring in on me. His tail flicked even faster creating a hypnotic effect. I could feel myself levitate and my consciousness become buoyant.

"Do you know who god is?" He whispered in my ear. I heard the thrumming of the universe and I was caught up in the vortex of life spinning without becoming dizzy. I felt alive and refreshed as if on holiday.

"God is the pure consciousness which is in you. The entire universe is pure consciousness.  God is not distant from you. He is not up there far away," he pointed at the sky. "He does everything, he eats what he kills, he breathes, he puts his pants on one leg at a time. He shoots the gun. He kills the bird. He is an assassin and a savior all at once. He dwells in the cave of one's own heart. He transcends the mind and the fives senses. Though it appears he does nothing, he does everything. He holds everything together."

As he spoke we rose into the air in unison. The Great Cat and I tumbled slowly over and over like dice on a craps table. Suddenly he and I were leaning against the edge of a real craps table. All that is a Las Vegas casino came crashing in around us, lights, noise, smoke and the smell of money won and lost. I had the dice in hand and he was placing his bets. The Great Cat threw a $500 chip into the center and yelled "This one is for God!" I rolled a 12 and he scooped up a pile of mice, shoving a few into his pockets and the rest he placed on his tongue. He smiled and swallowed them whole. I could see a trickle of blood on his chin.

Once again we rose into the air and tumbled over and over his big golden eyes flashing. I was relaxed and happy. I found myself laughing, my belly jiggled from side to side. I could not stop laughing. I found myself sitting in the center of a roulette wheel whirling round and round. Black and red, black and red flashed before my eyes over and over and over. There was a group gathered around placing their chips.

The croupier spun the wheel. "Ladies and gentlemen, place your bets, place your bets please," the little man said this sweetly and efficiently; his only line in the great play of life. The Great Cat placed his chips on the number 19 and watched the ball rolling and bouncing. Again the thrumming, the vibration of the universe rocked me.

"Since the omnipresent infinite consciousness alone is present at all times, diversity is absurd and impossible," the Great Cat whispered amidst the buzzing as the little ball hopped and bopped its way around the wheel.

"Belief in the existence of a goblin, be it PETA or the American Bird Conservancy, creates it. Belief that there is anyone other than you in this world establishes duality. There is you and only you. There is no other than you. When god, the non-dual being is known, duality vanishes instantly. It is all, it is supreme blessedness and peace, it is beyond expression. It is transcendent. It is supreme." The ball dropped onto the number 19 and stuck. The Great Cat smiled fiercely and collected a huge pile of songbirds the croupier pushed towards him.

"Cato, move your attention to the infinite, to the being in your heart," he whispered to me over the table as he scooped up the pile of birdies. In that instant, an instant when I would have been sorely temped to grab a body or two and to suck the meat from the soft small bones of the birds, I had no desire to eat or to kill. I was happy. I was satisfied. I was supremely contented.

I turned to the Great Cat with a question, but he was gone. All that was left was a crumpled cocktail napkin, a martini and a huge pile of chips.

On the napkin he had written: "One should worship the lord of the three worlds by any means possible. How should you contemplate him? Here he had drawn a small finch being bitten in half by a rather large black cat. "God is pure instinct. He has a voracious appetite and an all consuming passion."

"God is pure intelligence, he is as radiant as a hundred thousand suns risen together. He is the light that illumines all lights. He is the inner fire, resplendent and warm. Bath in his luminescence and he will give you everything. He touches all, he tastes all, he hears all, he thinks through all though he is beyond thinking. He does everything at all times, he bestows whatever one thinks of or desires, he dwells in all, he is the all, he alone is to be sought by all. Thus should you contemplate him."

Suddenly, I was back on the sofa. The credits for the film were running. I stirred and rolled over. Next to me was a pile of very small bones. My pockets bulged with chips. The Great Cat had left an round trip airline ticket to Las Vegas on his pillow. The reservation was made for the "Luckiest Cat in the World." I looked around. There were no other cats in the vicinity.