am well aware from the very beginning of this colloquy between
you and I that I cannot expect your sophisticated, and shall we
say predetermined mind to accept the position I am in without
total rejection. But I beg of you to withhold your disbelief as
well as your unrestrained laughter and afford me the opportunity
of fully revealing my condition before you arrive at a final misjudgement
of a situation of which you do not possess one iota of comprehension,
dammit! I did not accomplish this on my own, and who did I cannot
say, and what will come of it I cannot tell, but it is a fact.
I am a cat. With total recall. In some ways that is a help, in
others it is a hell.
restrain your impulse to depart because I am desperate for your
confidence as I am about to expose additional information that
may astonish you further. Before I was a cat I was a person. My
name was Morris Minsky. Moe for short. When Moe died, whatever
may happen to souls this is what happened to his, and though you
may remain skeptical (and I don't blame you), Moe was changed,
or made over, or put back as a cat. Me. Mokie.
Among the many exceptional attributes Moe had,
he was also a hip character, if I may employ the vernacular current
at the time, besides being an inveterate teller of tales. It became
apparent to me that the main reason I must have been - I hesitate
to use the word - reincarnated, was to insure the preservation
of those tales. How, you may well ask, can a cat, even a hip cat,
be expected to tell stories? He can't. But the mysterious powers
we all worship in some form or another, even if only to avoid
being looked down upon as pagans, have enabled me to discover
a mouthpiece for Moe, and God only knows what he thinks about
all this. But here they are, Moe Minsky's marvelous "mysess."
if you don't know what that means, ask anybody in Katz's delicatessen.