There is a kitty-shaped hole in my heart. I’ve lived kittilessly for years now, four years to be exact, ever since Van city became my home for school. Van city is one happening place, with fun streets and shiny water and cafes of every sort, but the need for a kitty is sometimes overpowering, and the cuddly little beasts on youtube can only do so much for this cuddle-lorn kitty piner. In fact, those painfully cute videos actually make it worse, for to think of kitty is to feel absence of kitty, n’est pas?
Not too long ago I took a stand and demanded that my kitty needs be addressed. As at the time my mother-and-provider was visiting, it was to her that I made my solemn entreaty. I was immediately and unceremoniously shot down as mother’s co-worker’s kitties had just run up an impressive doctor’s bill and left the co-worker pretty down and out. That’s right. A couple of hypochondriac kitties threw a wrench into my plans and now I’m back at square one.
Having waded through student loan and bursary forms and tax returns and tried my best to understand the intricacies of this bureaucracy, I decided I had grounds to apply for a kitty scholarship: awarded once a year to person(s) with a demonstrated need for a kitty. The winning applicant can claim their kitty by waiting for a kindly government official to arrive at my (er… I mean his/her) door step with a basket of mewling infants of which he/she may choose the companion (or two) he/she fancies best. If I pitch the idea seriously enough, I’m sure someone up there among the powers that be will take notice. Right?