Warm beer and sheep's pluck

A year ago, I caught my campaign manager looking at Siamese Cat rescue agencies on the Internet. As soon as she realized I was watching the screen, she clicked it shut. I didn't think much about it until one day I was lying in the sun listening to Grooverider on my iPod when two shiny shoes walked up to me and asked:

"Mr. Cato?" The voice was deep, rich and melodic. I was so engrossed in the music that at first I thought it was Grooverider himself.

"Yes," I said, "oh, yes." I was moving my shoulders and toes to the music. The ear buds were whipped off my head and the fellow grabbed me rather roughly by the neck and held me up to his lips.

"Mr. Cato, it is your lucky day," his lower lip was wet, red and slightly swollen like he had recently had plastic surgery. "Your campaign manager has arranged a lovely trip for you to the Burgundy region of France. Your journey will include a visit to Domaine Heresztyn the famous pinot noir producer." I began to salivate. There is nothing in the world like pinot from Burgundy, and nothing better than Heresztyn.

"When do we leave?" I stood up and brushed off my fur. I was ready to go.

"Follow me," he said. I followed him to the street.

Lest you think me an idiot, you must know that I was aware that all was not as it seemed. I was suspicious, but wanted to play along because if my campaign manager had arranged a trip, then I was excited to see where I was going.

My campaign manager is a master at catering to my every whim. She knows my preferences; my favs and pet peeves. She has the list. I printed out for her. But lately, she has been tired of my flea problems. Cleaning the house repeatedly has become a burden. And the medications, while effective, were getting harder and harder to give to me without getting clawed and bitten. I have a temper........ I knew she was stressed enough with my campaign that having to deal with my health problems might have finally put her over the edge. In other words, I suspected she had arranged for something drastic to happen to me.

But for the moment, I was distracted when I found a Lincoln Town Car, appointed with pink satin pillows that just fit my derriere. Mr. Smith, as he wanted me to call him, handed me a small glass of a semillon from Stony Hill. Next to the pillow was a boxed lunch from Martini House. I was in heaven. I sat back and took a ride.

My home, the Napa Valley, is one of the most beautiful places on earth. The graceful, green vineyards are set against verdant hills. There are long sweeps of fields, punctuated by well-appointed and sometimes whimsical wineries. It is my daily pleasure to ride through this landscape and breath the air of the rich and famous. This ride was no different. I stuffed myself and lay down for a nap; Mr. Smith at the wheel; a little Bach playing for background music.

We pulled up on the tarmac of the Napa County Airport next to a Gulf Stream jet with the number N1HC. Something in the back of my mind reminded me of the significance of this number and this plane. I had read about it somewhere, but I couldn't remember where. As it was I was a bit woozy. Mr. Smith had to hoist me into my flight seat when I found I was too weak to jump myself. He placed a belt across my lap.

He was joined by another man dressed in a dark suit. The guy had a crew cut, short blonde hair and his eyes were masked by a pair of sunglasses. He nodded to me and handed me a selection of magazines. I took the latest Fortune Magazine and then the lights went out.

Hours later I found myself laying on a countertop next to a sink. I heard voices nearby, so I lay motionless waiting to see what would transpire.

"Madam Cato, we have the cells and should be able to culture them," I was intrigued by the voice. Just as I thought, we hadn't traveled to France at all. Going by the accent, I guess we were somewhere in Scotland. This was haggis, bashed neeps and chappit tatties country. I thought about warm beer and sheep's pluck and gagged silently.

"As you said Ma'am, even in his sedated state, he was dangerous. Our head researcher is in the hospital, he was completely ripped open. Yes, yes, Madam, we will have to charge you extra for the hospitalization." He listened for several seconds and replied. "We'll take the most viable cells and implant them in surrogate mothers. From then it will take the normal feline gestation period and we should have several viable kittens."

"Yes we did Madame, as best we could, we implanted only those cells without the allergy component. This is not a precise science and it is hard to figure out where allergies come from given that cats have 19 pairs of chromosomes. When you alter one gene, you can disturb other characteristics. We were, however, able to harvest those characteristics that you most desired -- the albinism gene that describes Siamese, the aelle "cs". The results should give us a similar look to Cato, but without the allergies, the obsessive-compulsive factors and the irritable temperament." He listened for several seconds preoccupied with the individual on the other end of the call.

I opened one eye. Staring down at me was a comely ewe with a deeply satisfied smile. I was startled by this until I realized the sheep was inside a picture frame. I recognized that smile from television reports. Here was Dolly the first cloned animal. My life reeled before me. My campaign manager had done it, she'd tried to clone me without the annoying characteristics that make me, ME!

She no longer loved me! My body convulsed in a silent scream. I dry-balled my eyes out, remaining as limp as possible.

When I came back to my senses, I was alone in the lab. I have no idea what fate would have awaited me if I had lain unconscious until Mr. Smith collected me. As it was, I left the lab in ruins and hopped a commercial airliner for the transatlantic flight. I took a taxi home from the airport. The house was silent when I arrived. I climbed onto the back of my chair and went to sleep.

My campaign manager was not surprised to see me later that night when she returned home. She fed me as usual. Evidently the lab had warned her. I was sure she would pay for my destruction.

Thus began the agonizing days until my clone showed up in an Styrofoam ice chest.

It is disturbing to watch this little fellow, who looks so much like me, and has so few problems. He spends no time at all grooming himself. His fur is flawless. Fleas, even phantom fleas, seem to have no effect on him. He just brushes them off. Psychologically he is sound as well. He cuddles on cue. He doesn't use his claws. He sits purring contentedly in my campaign manager's lap.

I hate him. Even though he looks like me, he has this little self-satisfied smile, I find hard to stomach. It is the same smile that Dolly the sheep had. It is hard to wipe it off his face, although I have tried many times. It must be genetic.

Comments

[The Crew]

OMG, this is the most awful thing I've ever heard. You were drugged, kidnapped and cloned! I never heard of that happening to a Presidential candidate.

George