Satos in the Big Easy by Chi-Ping

That cranky cat from Illinois mewed in a tiny helpless way, when she said, “Do you want some leche?” As if he knows what leche is and I don’t. I’m a Puerto Rican dog, I know what leche is and I want some. Give it to me! The old bugger cat hopped from a chair to run across the counter to lap up the leche. She told him how precious she thinks he is.

My English is not too good but, when I hopped on the table yesterday she made me understand not to do that again in no uncertain terms. After only two weeks in New Orleans I could tell life was going to be very different from our little road on the hill overlooking the lake. For one thing I have a big bed, but I ‘m forced to share it with Blondie, the two humans and that bossy cat, who has to have his head on her shoulder.

Blondie and I ruled the road in Guatajataca, running to investigate any disturbance. We chased people, other dogs, cats and even some cars we don’t like. Here she takes us out on “walks,” which means we drag her ass where we want to go. She likes to be drug often, so every couple of hours we take her out on the twenty foot lines that retract when we come back to see how she’s doing. Blondie likes her a lot; me, I have my doubts.

Smoki, the cat, likes to perch in the window howling and complaining to the street cats about how he has such a hard life and doesn’t like what they feed him. Here near City Park in New Orleans cats roam the streets like dogs do where I come from. Smoki grew up in a kennel. He says he’s never seen some many cats in all his lives. He now knows there is a cat heaven in which cats run the streets listening to jazz music. Blondie and I just want to chase some, sink a tooth into one just because we do that when we’re excited. Smoki should only know he’s living under the same roof as a cat killer. Maybe that’s why he sleeps on her shoulder or in the high window in the kitchen. No matter, Blondie and I planned to get rid of him before long.

All the dogs in New Orleans pull people. I mean here we are near City Park wanting to run, sniffing everything before tuning in to the finer smells in life like garbage with a woman tied to the other end. She’s slow. She’s praying with her mind on God and nature. I try to tell her to forget dreaming about life and nature; get out there, live, sniff, laugh and be happy. Let’s forget about the leash. You won’t forget where we live.

I never knew what I was missing in Puerto Rico. This city has more cats than you can count; catch the kitty is one of my favorite games. The tantalizing scent wafting up out of the storm drain puts my sense on high alert. It’s even more interesting than watching squirrels run in the trees. Catching one, that’d be a four treat day. We should get squirrels in Puerto Rico; wouldn’t that be fun? I’ve never seen a storm drain like this; how do I get down there? What kinds of creatures live in storm drains?