Confederacy of dunces

In case you're wondering why I've offered you nothing but a burrowing bunny all week ... I was ordered to take some time off "to just be a cat." Seems Mister and Madame are concerned that I get too worked up over stuff and that I don't know how to relax. As if 16 hours of sleep a day is not enough. This all started with that trip to the vet. The lab work came back and confirmed exactly what I'd told them: I'm fine. But the Madame will hear none of it. She thinks I am under too much stress. She says I'm starting to remind her of Ignatius Reilly. "Who?" I said. Never mind, she said, let's just say you are starting to adopt a borderline imperious tone.

The Madame went into the den with a bushel of peas to shell, so it was an opportune time for a clandestine foray into cyberspace. I wanted to find out who this Reilly is. And I don't like what I discovered. First of all, he's a fictional character—a disheveled, disgusting one at that. He is a hypochondriac. I, on the other hand, must insist relentlessly that there is nothing wrong with me. I don't steal hot dogs from my employer. I revel in pop culture. And I have never abused a glove, whatever that means (please don't tell me—I have a feeling I don't want to know).

I hear somebody coming. If I'm caught, I'm sure to be admonished. At least for a few more days, I have to pretend to "just be a cat." It's a far sight better than being Ignatius Reilly, I suppose.