Cats and dogs and Sonia Sotomayor

Some people, not known for their racial sensibilities, now claim Sonia Sotomayor is a racist. A «new racist», they call it, to make sure their audience will understand her background is different from the «old racist»’s.
She once said: «I would hope that a wise Latina woman with the richness of her experience would more often than not reach a better conclusion than a white man who hasn’t lived that life».
As those of us being experienced in reading now can tell, Sotomayor spoke about the value of a diverse life experience. She did not value people of one ethnic background higher than another. That the «certain people» I am talking about fail to understand the truth in this, or that they choose to twist it their way, does not make our new Bronx born hero a racist. It rather proves her point, and it shows «old racism» is still alive and kicking.

Let me put it this way: Of course an underdog is more street smart than a house cat. Only the house cat can fail to see the truth in this. True, it is not as if house cats do not have a certain knowledge of their own. They know where the milk is kept. They know how to purr to get it. But one does not need to be an underdog to hope that the new home owner will dole out the milk in a more just manner than the last. Sure, for himself, he does not regard pedigree the same way as the one who just moved out, but this gentleman, too, will have to consider what the neighbors think, or he will be forced to move again.

Sonia Sotomayor is a street dog having been accepted within the house. House needs a new watch dog, and she can do the job. She’s among the lucky few and she knows it. But she has not gotten her own food bowl yet. The house cats show their claws, scratch and scream and try kicking her out in the cold. They’d rather have a lapdog doing the service the way they direct him to. Let’s hope their meowing won’t keep the home’s family up at night. Owner needs to stay calm to do his job to feed his family, cats and dogs included, and he should be able to focus his energy on that, rather than on silencing the cats’ complaints.

Me, I am an alley cat. I was born a house cat, with what they call the finest of pedigrees in the richest of houses. But I found my golden cage a bit too tight. I wanted to roam the world, and one of those days, I simply slipped out the back door. I was just a kitten, really, and luckily, they hadn’t started breeding on me yet. I easily adjusted to the alleys. I am fully aware I am among the privileged here too. My pedigree is visible. My manners are exquisite, but I know how to fight. I don’t have to resort to catching my own prey, but can eat the leftovers from the fancy restaurants, and the chefs will even stroke my back so I purr when I do it. I know, too, that if something should change, say, if one of my friends should knock me up, I could go back to the garage to deliver my offspring. Some house would most likely take me in if I wanted to, whatever reason. I don’t need to fear that exterminators will get to me, I know how to avoid them.
But, exterminators, and house cats: Don't you dare thinking, for even a second, that looking like you make me agree with you. I can assure you of this. I will kick and scream and scratch you with my claws, when you target one of my fellow animal friends. Keep this up, and you’ll have to watch your eyes and lick your wounds before you know it. And there are other cats like me in this world too, you know. When survival of the fittest rules, we’re a great deal stronger than you.