My name is Bucket Carroll, but you may better know me as Jon Carroll's cat. "Oh," you're thinking, "that kindly old lefty who writes columns in the back of Datebook about the World's Most Perfect Granddaughter. Well, it must be just dandy to be that guy's cat!"
Well, no, it isn't. Not if you are the World's Most Conservative Cat. My owner — that's right, all you liberal San Francisco mush-heads who fight to be called "guardian," I said "owner" — and I do not agree on most things. He writes with a left-leaning bent that I find alarming. I've tried to engage him in a discussion about Iraq — we should not cut and run! — but he mistakes my variation of meows for interest in the milk at the bottom of his cereal bowl. I am like a prisoner in a Communist re-education camp. My Mariner's Catch could go stale waiting for the Carroll TV set to be tuned to FOX News.
I have been represented in Mr. Carroll's column as not even counting as a whole cat — a "rumor of a cat" — because of my propensity for hiding in dark places and not greeting every visitor who crosses the threshold like a common dog. According to him, I'm "inept at socializing," "needy," "suspicious," and "pathologically introverted." As if any respectable Dubya supporter would be seen fraternizing with the socialists, artsy-fartsy types, and circus performers who are his friends.
Oh, why couldn't I be Ann Coulter's cat? Ah, I can just imagine kneading the bones beneath her miniskirt and listening to her shriek wisely about, say, how San Franciscans love America the way O.J. loved Nicole. If not Ann Coulter, I'd even settle for Debra Saunders. Sigh. Oh well. I try to tell myself it could be worse. I mean, at least I wasn't adopted by Annie Lamott.