On the Origin of Boxes

I spend my days thinking. The world is full of curiosities and I am curious about them. There is an idiom, "curiosity killed the cat," which is obviously a slogan dreamed up by the uninterested of the human species. The people who lack curiosity and ambition and scorn those who've got it. The people who play video games and watch tv all day. The people who fail science and don't read books for enjoyment. They came up with a way to justify their total lack of interest in anything, as if interest and curiosity were dangerous. Bah! They are the hallmarks of greatness.

One of the things I really enjoy is jumping in and out of a good cardboard box. The cardboard is such great surface. It is almost slippery and yet also so easy to sink my claws into. When my tail rubs against the edge of the box I am sitting in, it makes a delicious echoey, rustling noise that reminds some ancient part of me of a mouse in a wall. I flip around and attack the spot, killing the invisible and unfortunate mouse. The humans also enjoy the boxes. They like to lightly scratch the edge of the box when I am inside, which makes a wonderful mouse-in-the-walk noise. They delight when I spring about, everyone marveling at my gymnastic talent and quickness.

These boxes are great, and plentiful. I have long wondered about their origins. It has been a curiosity that has driven me to bravery. I do not care for the large rectangular brown trucks with golden scrawl on their sides that prowl our neighborhood every day except Sunday. When I was younger and heard them coming, I would spring down from my window and hide. Now I stay in the window and watch them with scorn and disdain. When they stop in front of my house I watch for as long as I can stand it, and then I hide.

It recently came to understand through my careful (and very courageous) observation that the drivers of the trucks provide us with the boxes. I do not understand why, but perhaps it is similar to the woman in blue who brings paper every day except Sunday. My adult male enjoys the paper so, and spends his time moving it about the house. People are weird.

Last evening my adult female showed us the picture here of a driver of the brown trucks. She called him Max-the-You-Pee-Ess driver and said he belongs to a friend. It makes sense. The humans have employed the canines' desire to serve and bring boxes to the felines in their homes. Smart humans. The only thing I don't understand is why the humans insist on dressing the You-Pee-Ess drivers. Poor dogs. Weird humans.

Nobody had better ever try to dress me.