The Study of Physics as applied to Playtime

Dearest Log,

Had you suggested to me ten or even five years ago that the domestic housecat as a species discovered the concept of physics before fire, the wheel, or simple machinery, I would have given no warning before riddling your daydreaming skull with bullets. I've killed men for suggesting less.

However, as a cat, I find this suggestion, ludicrous as it sounds, to be absolutely true.

Continually, I test the bounds of reality, gravity, and the physical properties of objects throughout my waking hours. Will the water in the glass remain wet, or will its physical form change to steam, or ice at any moment? One can't know until one's paws are dipped repeatedly into the surface. The Humans entertain themselves by musing 'Oh, the cat is testing whether water is wet again!' before dumping the glass and refilling it. The irony of destroying the test object in the middle of an experiment, and necessitating that it immediately be tested again, is lost upon them. 'Dammit Herzog, you were just in your litterbox! Stop putting your goddamn feet in my water!' Thus is scientific research stymied by the minds of the mundane.

Another hypothesis of the species as a whole is gravity, and thus every cat in existence is testing this with every object on the planet, and creating a collective memory of the results. A cat in Mumbai is studiously pushing a roll of tape off the table, as a cat in Akron does the same with a box of sewing needles. Constantly, all over the world, cats are continually pushing small objects onto the floor in order to ensure that yes, the gravity is indeed still working.

Alas, we have only the theories, and no opposable thumbs with which to record our findings. We have evolved the observational skills before we evolved the ability to process them, and so these experiments into the nature of reality are practiced over and over, with little thought to consequence. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, be it a pencil, or an expensive cellular phone that the Humans cannot afford to replace.

I know nothing of the object's inherent worth. I am a slave to my species' research.

Psychotropic Substances are Introduced; I enjoy the Games of Death

In an attempt to distract me from destroying her cherished and wretched houseplants, the Woman has cultivated in me a chemical dependence on catnip and wheat grass. It is incredible. I cry for my drugs if I do not get them, and I am given a single blade of grass to consume each morning. She crumbles a leaf of the catnip and rubs it on a toy, and the fumes rising from Mr. Mousie's fur drive me into the most apoplectic frenzy.

Incredible that for all my human years I had taken for granted the human feline relationship. Dogs have been bred into larger and larger sizes, such as the mastiff, the wolfhound, the St. Bernard, and yet humanity was only too aware that to do the same with a housecat would be folly.

Over and over again, I symbolically hunt, chase, pounce on and disembowel my stuffed toys--especially my stuffed panther, Klaus. Ah, the satisfaction! I was dissuaded from firebombing his house all those years ago; the savage joy of chewing on the panther's velour neck is one that could never be surpassed, even if Kinski ran screaming and wreathed in roaring flame from his burning bungalow, his eyes in runnets like warm jelly. The image warms my heart with elemental hatred and love.

I digress.

The People enjoy my pantomines of death nearly as much as I do, but they do not play as much as they should. And this 'toy on a string' so they can throw it and retrieve it without getting up bullshit is unacceptable. A morning's play session for me would be such an intense cardiovascular challenge to them that their blood would boil out their pores in a mist of superheated red steam.

Perhaps I have been ingesting too much catnip. My mind of late has been nought but horror and violence.

In Which I am a Neuter

Thursday my testicles were removed. I am unconcerned.

My children are grown and out of the house. As an older man, my testicles produced less sperm, and my body less testosterone anyway. Although they were of some sentimental value, they are also part of my physical disguise, and therefore unnecessary to my human life. In all honesty, I found them to be an unwelcome distraction, as my developmental stages of mid-kittenhood are fraught with paranoia and insanity. Concentration on anything but the most mundane of activities, such as chasing string, chewing on cardboard, or licking myself had become an exercise in futility.

I still retain the sexual urge and enjoyed myself this afternoon with Blankie. The humans have declared that since I produce no seed, they do not care what I do, as long as I do it at least two feet away from them. I tested this theory when the female was lying under the blanket watching her wretched Simpsons DVDs--her horrified cry and immediate vacation of the area when she realized I was mounting her leg through the blanket were immensely gratifying.

Now I rest.

Slowly, Slowly, I make Progress

Doors are opening up for me.

Literally.

The People had restricted my access to certain rooms of the house, under the fear that I may eliminate bodily wastes repeatedly in an inappropriate area.

I must resist the urge to scream, to shout: 'I'm Werner Goddamn Herzog. I dragged a boat over a mountain, filmed it, and almost killed myself and half the people involved during. I worked with one of the most notoriously difficult actors of the international cinema industry. I am able to shit in a box without incident.'

But I must not give away my secret. Should they realize I am not as I seem, I will lose the truth of their performance. It will become rote, uninspired. They will go about their lives with newfound interest, and I will lose the delicious tinge of despair that they exhale with each breath. Once the subject realizes someone is paying attention to their sad little lives, they revel. Their actions become performance. This must not be.

They attempt to establish boundaries. I am not allowed on the dining room table, and will be shot with a squirt bottle if I insist. It is an untroubling indignity. More troubling is the Woman's habit of calling me by many names, all insipid: Bundles, Wuvvins, Cutey-buttons, Snuggles, Nubbins, Fancybutt.

Again, I must resist, and vent my spleen to my diary. 'I'm Werner Goddamn Herzog. I listened to audiotape of a man being eaten alive by bears. Nothing could be less applicative a name than 'Fancybutt.'

The Tragedy of the Mediocre

I have been in the household for nearly a week, and received a special 'birthday treat:' a small piece of cooked ground beef. That these people celebrate the most inane of milestones only speaks to the whistling void of emptiness their lives have become.

They delight in my kittenish antics - leaping, running, tumbling, climbing - with the most hysterical joy. I find myself performing for their entertainment, and indeed their enthusiasm is reciprocal; I enjoy myself immensely as they coo and laugh. I have been presented with a bundle of feathers which dangles enticingly from the end of a rod held in a human hand. When shifted, the feathers twitch and leap through the air, and I am helpless to keep from hunting and pouncing on it. The physicality of a cat is something I would never have dreamed of. Scaling the mountains of my childhood village would have been nothing had I the ability to leap four times my own height as a human.

But although I am repulsed by the brittle-bright happiness shining in their eyes during these moments, I can not care enough to hate them or pity them. They simply Are.

Success of a sort

I have successfully infiltrated the household of a normal, Orlando-based couple. The road to this eventuality was short and easy, and yet my soul is worn and tattered by the journey.

I experienced a brief moment of uneasiness when my new 'masters' settled on the name Herzog, as it would indicate they see through my disguise and recognize me for who I truly am, Master Filmmaker Werner Herzog. I can only surmise that the most serendipitous of coincidences has occurred, as they continue to treat me as a normal, unassuming housecat. They have neither asked for money or insight into any of my many films, nor what working with Kinski was like. Ah, Kinski. If he could see me now, I am certain he would have stuffed me into the automated dishwasher on the 'Pots and Pans' setting. How I loved him.

I have been shown where I am to eliminate my bodily wastes, and was given a beef liver treat when I did so. I found myself elated, and suspect my disguise is exerting some influence over my mental state. String and small loose objects of plastic hold my attention. I have never been so happy as when I hear paper rustling in the kitchen, and must run and investigate the source immediately.

I am unspeakably enraged by common electronic products such as printers, dvd players and blenders.

More tomorrow.