Felidae on the Road - Special U.S. Edition Read Online Free

intelligence' should be trained to do certain things. No, no, she didn't bear a grudge because of the contretemps just now, but after all Gustav wasn't Tarzan, still less was she Jane, and she had no intention of spending the rest of her life as some kind of Mother Teresa of domestic pets. To be honest, she really preferred dogs ...
    Was anything more needed to show me that my days in the Garden of Eden were numbered? The answer was obviously yes. For the perception of misfortune usually goes hand in hand with lazy compromise; the mammalian brain seems to be so constructed as to make the best of even the most hopeless situation. At such times you tend to play the optimistic clown, even when you'd need potatoes instead of eyes not to notice you were in deep trouble. You start deceiving yourself and coming to terms with disaster. And that's what I did too. Things are never as bad as they seem, I thought - a surprising lapse into the sententious which was the first step towards lowering my standards. I even went to the trouble of trying to put myself in her emotional situation, although robot warriors don't have one. A woman is not a man, I told myself with grim logic, and she'd be a pretty poor representative of her sex if she didn't drag her fool of a companion into the wonderful world of flowers on the dining table, Easter walks together, and the nagging about clothes and haircuts that ends only in the grave. Admittedly Gustav wasn't a man in his twenties, assailed by turbulent hormones, leading a cave-man life in student digs surrounded by foil ready-meal trays and the poisonous gases from his dirty socks. Over the years, however, despite the high cultural level of our life together, a certain lackluster element had crept in. It frequently does when an all-male society gets set in its ways. Wouldn't the hand of a loving woman bring a little freshness and sunshine into a pedestrian existence, which might function smoothly but was gradually fossilising, what with all the rituals of the bachelor life? I asked myself that question in all seriousness ... and next moment I yelled back the answer: Nooooooo! Good heavens above, was the curse this tarted-up cow - I bet she used mouth spray - was the curse this silly old moo had laid on my poor friend affecting me too? How come I was regarding a sour old dragon who obviously wanted me up in front of a firing squad as a self-sacrificing newly-wed bride?
    Over the next few days my fears were to be confirmed, indeed far exceeded. Here are some extracts from the wrathful diary I kept in my mind, reproduced by kind permission of my photographic memory.
     
     
    Day 1
    Didn't sleep a wink all night. Horrible woman keeps making noises in her sleep. Noises like squeals of torment from King Kong's cage. Wondered if grotesque parody of snoring was just to annoy me. Came to no conclusion. Stupid man snores too. His version, however, more like the comfortable burping of grizzly bears in hibernation; have always found something soothing, even beneficial to quality of sleep, about it. Now, however, two kinds of snoring united in frightful duet, symphony of horror fit to rival rutting cries of aurochs.
    Horrible woman is fanatical early riser - sign of horrible people in general. The moment her old red alarm clock starts clattering, like Satan calling his followers to deeds of sin, woman sits bolt upright in bed. Waking process therefore noisy too. Woman's figure not bad, but general appearance rather skinny. Inadequate concealment of wreckage left by innumerable crash diets. Makes stupid man get up early too and have breakfast with her. Breakfast celebrated with as much ceremony as Ascension Day Mass in the Vatican. Takes about as long too. Stupid man goes to endless trouble to seem awake. Well, no choice, has he? Non-stop chatter inflicted on us by Archaeopteryx rules out morning meditation anyway.
    In melancholy mood, indulge in memories. Before era of dark power, day began with loving customs,