Cock and Pussy  

     Once upon a time there was a cock. And there was pussy. They lived together in the same barn, though they seemed to want to have nothing to do with each other. The cock spent his day cock-a-doodle-dooing, apparently for no reason at all, just to make a lot of noise. Whereas pussy contented herself with gentle purrs, prowling around the nooks in search of mice, only raising her voice enough to purr, meow, or occasionally whine. Such is the nature of the species. Cock, and pussy.

     Or maybe genetics have little to do with it, beyond the shape and size of the tail, the bark and the bite. Everyone has their place on the farm, as ordained by a higher power, the farmer. All the animals grow up to do what is expected of them, pussies purring and cocks cock-a-doodle-dooing. It would look rather strange if one day they traded roles. Altogether unnatural, even if there is nothing altogether natural about a farm. In the wild, the animals are not fed. They feed. Neither are they slaughtered. They're eaten alive. The very fact that cock and pussy coexist in domestic serenity is the result of good breeding. As civilized beasts they know without ever being taught that they are both needed species on the farm and should behave accordingly, leaving each other to their important work. When pussy runs through the hay, the cock will not cock-a-doodle-doo. And for that matter, pussy never chases cock.

     To this day they would still be going their separate ways if not for the meddling of a third party. Enter the snake. Queer little thing. Not much more than your garden variety worm, writhing around in slimy onanistic delight. Pussy stalks it for a while, thinking she might like to play with it, paw it, pin it down and torture it before deciding on a whim to stick it in her mouth, sink her teeth into the flesh, and then either spit it out or perhaps chomp the slithery invertebrate to bits and swallow it. Something holds her back. Perhaps the smell or the threat of poisonous venom dripping out of the small slit on the head. So instead she waits for the devil to make its move, in the meantime staring at the slit suggestively.

     The snake, recoiling in disgust, rattles and swishes, and when that doesn't make pussy go away, opens its mouth very very wide and speaks.

     "Stop stalking me, pussy," it says.

     "You talk?" pussy has to ask.

     "Sure. Just because I don't have what you would consider a face, that doesn't mean I don't have a mind. I'm a thinking man."

     "You're no man. You're just a worm."

     "A snake, thank you."

     "A thinking snake. And what evil thoughts might you be thinking?"

     "Nothing really." He slithers side to side and flicks his skinny neck like a long fey wrist. "It's just that I was worming through this rotten apple when a stunning idea popped into my pea brain. I thought, wouldn't it be nice to have a party. A pea party. With lots of pods. A pea pea party. I really should entertain more."

     "Who would you invite, a bunch of snakes and worms? Sounds like a slimy affair."

     "Oh, we have our fun."

     "Pervert."

     "And to think, I was going to invite you. Silly thought. Who would you come with? Who would want to come with you? You're all alone. I can't think of anyone in my circle who would want to date a pussy. Not with those claws. Why don't you go to a manicurist."

     With that, the impertinent serpent slides off, leaving pussy to purr in solitude. True, she spends all her time by herself. But she likes it that way. Pussy is after all a cat.

     Who wants to go to some crowded party anyway? A pea party with silly pods. A rotten apple fest held in the mud. A brown orgy full of scatologically inclined parasites. Pussy has class. When she does socialize it's only with the farmer and his guests, in the main house, where she's treated like a queen, regaled with fresh cream and liver snaps.

     Pussy shakes off the malevolent suggestion and tiptoes on her way. When a pink mouse crosses her path, she wastes no time in snaring the snivelling rodent in her claws, crippling the poor animal before tossing it away in disgust, leaving her casualty there to die a slow painful death.

     Pussy is too distracted to finish the job, in no humor for fun and games. That cunning little snake has planted a seed of discontent. Maybe pussy is lacking in friends. Maybe she spends too much time by herself. But that has nothing whatsoever to do with her claws. If pussy wanted a manicure, she'd get one. She knows a good manicurist. An old bird. A pathetic creature. Spends all day and night grooming herself. What's the point? At her age. Silly duck. What cock would want her?

     When pussy drops by her manicurist, the sight of the old bird in her nest is striking indeed. See, that's what happens when you spend your whole life sitting around laying eggs and primping yourself. The woman is certainly very well-kempt, but fat and grotesquely painted. No rooster would cock-a-doodle-doo over her. No big cat would want to eat that. She's too big herself. Life is always a compromise and the old hen seems to have figured that her best bet for survival is in becoming a fixture of matronhood, dedicated to domestic security, harnessed to her nest. Pussy resents the implication, the way age makes tragic characters out of so many females. Still in the first blush of youthful maturity, she knows for sure that she will never let herself succumb to such desperation. The young always vow to age well. And they'll insist they're aging well even as the next generation is giggling behind their backs.

     "Well, well, well," crows the old bird in her hoarse trashy way. "Look who's heah."

     Truth be known, she's just an ordinary street pigeon who relocated to the farm to marry a cock. He died a long time ago, hen-pecked. But she's no hen either. The native New Yawka puts on airs, holds her head high like she thinks she's some rare breed of parrot. Who ever heard of parrots in Brooklyn? She's a pigeon, plain and simple. If you believe the gossip, word has it she's part rat.

     Pussy struts in with a most ambiguous grin plastered on her feline face, doing her best to hide the fact that she hates the old bird, almost as much as the old bird hates her.

     "Pussy dahlin'. I thought we'd never see yaw sweet face around heah. But um glad ya came anyways."

     There's a poodle in curlers in the next chair. A real bitch. She snarls a greeting, glares at pussy, immediately sizing up the competition. And cats are supposed to be catty? Nothing more bitchy than a bitch in heat.

     "Don't mind her," the old bird whispers. "She gets testy waitin' faw those nails ta dry."

     Let them stare. Pussy ignores them all. The bitchy canines. The pushy pigs. The squinching squirrels. And those stupid fat cows, mouths dropped, staring at her out of a bovine void, mooing amongst themselves that the bulls prefer a cow with meat on her. That's how you turn out on a vegetarian diet. Slow, dull, and fat.

     Pussy makes herself comfortable, perched with carnivorous self-satisfaction on a silk cushion. "I thought I'd just get a little trim," she says demurely displaying her fierce claws.

     "Oh my gawd. Yaw gonna scare away the boys with them knives. Um all faw the natural look," she adds smearing her beak with red lipstick, "but ya gotta be subtle. If ya wanna have claaaass!"

     Pronounced like it rhymes with yeah, the vowel attenuated from chewing gum while reciting Shakespeare. The old bird clearly wants what she can't have. Class. So much so that everything about her screams born-in-the-gutter. She goes about filing down pussy's proud weapons before painting them pink, all the while talking non-stop just as a parrot would, except in the vulgar vernacular of a plain old pigeon. She gossips about every species of beast, all customers who come to her to have their nails done, women with secrets to hide who make the mistake of telling them to their manicurist. The gossip is always insignificant, but the old bird makes them feel very special for harboring a carnal knowledge. Prying it out of them, as birds do when digging through the muck with their beaks.

     "So tell me, honey. Who's the lucky fella?"

     Pussy sucks her teeth. Can't a girl have her nails done without trying to please a man? Pussy's do things for themselves.

     "No one special, huh?" The old bird is a sly old bird. And a compulsive matchmaker. "Ya know who I saw the other day?"

     She waits for an answer. But pussy is too clever a cat to be fooled in such a base manner.

     "He even mentioned you. Said he saw yaw behind the other day. Funny I should happen ta see ya heah today. Funny."

     Pussy ignores the old bird, prefering to study her own lovely black fur in the mirror.

     "Don't ya wanna know who um tawkin' about?"

     "No."

     "Guess."

     There clearly is no saying no to this pecking hen. "Okay. It must have been that snake."

     "Who, that little wormy thing?" The old bird is taken aback. "Are you kiddin'? I heard terrible things about that slimy little guy. He's not nawmal. I think he's a little, ya know, a little too smooth around the hips. Too slippery to be kosher, if ya get my drift. Listen ta me, honey. Stay away from that worm. What you need is a real man. C'mon. Take another guess."

     "I don't know. Just tell me. Or don't." Pussy hisses.

     "I'll give ya a hint. He's real manly. He's got a good job on the farm. You see him every day, oily in the mawning."

     Pussy can't imagine who the old bird is talking about.

     "Oh c'mon! Stop pretendin'. Ya know a stud when ya see one. And that cock is a real stud."

     "Which cock?"

     "You paw deah. You been chasin' mice too long. Look around, honey. The one and only cock. The roosta. The way he cocks a doodle doo sends a shiva up my spine every time. Lemme tell ya. He's a cock of real breedin'."

     "He's a chicken."

     "Hatched from the best egg."

     Pussy thinks about that. Then meows. "I don't like chicken. Not even to eat. The stuff in the supermarket tastes like cardboard. And that canned stuff is like cat food. Bleh!"

     "Yaw so picky. Listen dahlin'. Take it from me. You can afford ta be picky so long as yaw young. I was too once." She lowers her voice. "Not that um so old, but olda than you. So take it from me. There's gonna come a time when ya gonna have ta settle down. Befaw it's too late, ya betta take what you can get. Maybe the cock's just a chicken, but he's got what it takes. A secure profession, and a firm tail. A very firm tail."

     Late that night pussy prowls around the barn in an unusually sulky state. She was perfectly content to chase mice until everyone started putting ideas in her head, how she's supposed to chase cock when she doesn't even like the taste of cock. The old bird told her with a blush that it's an acquired taste. Maybe so, but pussy is a modern pussy. She does what she wants, when she wants, to satisfy her own needs. She doesn't need a man to be fulfilled. Perhaps she'd prefer the company of another pussy. They could lick each other, instead of themselves. Might be fun.

     At the crack of dawn the cock makes his presence known. To everyone within earshot. Pussy is just ready for bed when she hears the damn alarm go off. She gives the jerk a once over. He's manly alright. No one could ever accuse him of being anything less than cocksure. But he's just so dumb. That expression in his face has all the lucidity of a chicken's, before and after decapitation. Duh. Besides that, he's loud. How many times can he say cock-a-doodle-doo. Shut up already. And he's coarse. He smells like turkey. He might be good in bed. Worth a one-night stand. But you'd certainly regret it in the morning. At around five o'clock, when he starts cock-a-doodle-dooing in your ear.

     Now it should be pointed out that sex between species is an unholy practice that can never be condoned. If you should one day encounter your pet frog leaping on your gerbil, or for that matter your husband hopping on an unsuspecting bunny rabbit, report them immediately to the ASPCA, the FBI, the CIA, and the Secretary of Homeland Security too. For the sake of the children. That said, when push comes to shove in the natural world, morals are an afterthought. As any gerbil will tell you, which baby to eat first is the only question. When a beast is in heat, they'll rub up against any leg in their way. Just now pussy is feeling such an urge. Instinctual or learned, biological in any case. An inexplicable impulse. In spite of her general repulsion towards the very sight and smell of cock, she wants it now. The object of her desire. In her claws. Pussy wants cock.

     But does the cock want pussy? She goes about trying to capture his attention. Pussy purrs. And purrs. She slinks by, this way, that way, round and round. She lies down and stretches provocatively. Still no response. Why is she doing this to herself? The problem is the same with all obsessive behavior. Once you start, you can't stop. Finally she waves her paws in the air and the pink nail polish is enough to distract the cock from his verbal monotony. The old hen insisted on pink, the color of love. Works every time, she claimed. And so it does.

     "There's something different about you," says the cock.

     "Really?" Pussy meows seductively. "Like what?"

     "Oh, nothing. I guess I never noticed you before. We keep different hours."

     "No reason to be strangers when our schedules overlap." Pussy struts by, stops with her butt in his face and lifts her tail high in the air, wiggling it with feline finesse.

     "Why are you doing that?" the cock asks.

     "Doing what?" pussy whines, sensuously brushing her fur against his tail.

     "Oh, nothing." With that the cock turns around, pays no more attention to the ways of pussy and her kind and goes back to doing the one thing, the only thing that apparently interests him in life. Cock-a-doodle-dooing.

     Pussy slinks into herself. Her fur bristles. She already felt ridiculous playing this demeaning game. The rejection is humiliating. She vows never to chase cock again, no matter how firm his tail. She doesn't need his love, or the love of any beast in the wild. Pussy is no mere pet, but men, women and children all love to pet her. And if she's hungry for some action she can go all night on the prowl, killing for her pleasure. That's right. Pussy is free. Pussy relies on no one else. She has all the love she needs. Because she loves only herself.

     Her vows strike a chord. She runs off and cries her eyes out. Being a pussy, her whimpering sounds like just more whining, meowing, and purrs. Hidden in the desperation is an existential question. Is the world really so cruel that you have only yourself in the end? Is life on the farm just as ruthless as in the jungle? If everyone wants what they want but no one means what they say, why pretend otherwise? The choice, for a cat, seems to come down to either surviving on her own, liberated and independent in a state of lonely self-sufficiency, or to rub up against her fellow beast in order to entice him into sharing his affection, if not his food. For all animals in the animal kingdom it's a question of trust. How close is too close? Will you be fed, or eaten alive?

     In a moment pussy gets her answer. Only not the one she wanted. Along comes yet another species of animal husbandry, this one big and strong, with a bark that makes the cock sound like a silly rooster. This macho man is a real beast, appears to have a more than healthy appetite for pussy, and is not shy about showing his affection.

     The bull dog charges into the coop with all the discretion of an invading army. The new guy on the block scares the chickens right out of their feathers. Even the cocksure cock flies off in a flutter. But when he spots pussy, the dog stops in his tracks.

     He opens his mouth. His tongue salivates and he licks his teeth. He's a dog alright. He spends his days hanging out with other dogs, in packs, chasing bones and sniffing butt. Everything is sport to a dog. Though nothing gets a dog running like the smell of pussy. What he wants to do with her once he catches her is anyone's guess. The main thing is the chase.

     Pussy doesn't wait to find out. She whips herself into motion. Indeed the dumb dog chases her around the barn for as long as he can before realizing that big and strong as he is, the object of his desire will always be just a hair out of his reach. Birds can fly and cocks cock-a-doodle-doo, but pussies have paws, not wings. They run for their lives. They have fur, not feathers. Same as any dog with a bone, pussies like to be stroked.