All the ladies love a bad boy, and for
cats, it's no exception. Coleridge T. Whiskers lived by his own
rules, and beneath his fur had a belly tattoo that read ALLEY LIFE
and across his back, YOLNT. When he was supposed to be studying, he
would throw his notebooks on the floor and practice his sweet b-boy
backspins instead. In fact, there was no contest he wouldn't attempt
to settle in a dance off: who took a sweet feline home, who rode
shotgun, who got the last hit of catnip.
At school, the teachers would get on to
him after breaking into a butterfly-windmill-backflip into a headspin
in the middle of a lecture. “Mister Whiskers,” they would stay,
“behave this instant!”
“You must have me confused,” he
would say. “Mister Whiskers is my father's name. You can call me
Coolcat.”
The teachers would roll their eyes, but
the girls would swoon. “You're heading down a bad path, Mister
Whiskers,” they would say, but he wouldn't listen. They were
talking to his dad.
He did end up poorly. Too many fights,
too much attitude and he got kicked out of the house, just another
homeless alley cat begging for scraps and digging in dumpsters.
Sometimes, he and the other strays would descend on the same can only
to find one fish bone to nibble on. Coolcat wasn't worried though. He
had a dance move for just such occasions.
- Originally mailed to M. Wilkes of Ridgeland, Mississippi
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