Isn’t that all a zombie cat ever wants? Why won’t anyone give her a hug and a scruffle, apart from the fact that her fur might come off completely?
There’s a bit of a story behind this. You know those noddy dogs and cats on the back of the car that nod as the car goes over bumps? There’s not a lot to them, just a body with a hole in it and a head attached to a long tube which acts as a kind of counterweight, pivoting on a little hook. Well, it turns out a toddler can grab that little head-with-a-long-tube bit and yank it out and, lo! Cat head on a stick. Meow.
As if that wasn’t gruesome enough, the toddler can then parade said cat-head-on-a-stick around and shove it up in your grill. You’re obliged to play along. Alright, meow. Meow! And then the toddler can chew on the face, scrape off the faux fur, push in the eyes. Meow. Meow. Meeeeoooow!
Well, when the toddler’s back is turned, one might, say, take said mangled-defurred-chewed-cat’s-head-on-a-stick and place it, perhaps, in the bin. Where it belongs. Where it should stay until bin night when the big bin can take it away and dump it in the garbage pile away from the toddler. At least, that’s what should happen. Cats, if you don’t know, have a propensity for coming back. That’s a concern, given the context of the story. Just like with Jurassic Park, cats will find a way.
In this case, the toddler, on some kind of preternatural impulse, seeks out the bin. Perhaps she can hear the call of zombie cat, who really just wants love. Perhaps there’s a bond between them that formed while she was chewing on its face. Either way, the toddler finds the head on a stick and takes it out, gives it an extra chew of compassion, then shoves it, defurred, missing an eye and covered in spit, back up in your grill. MEOW!
So, yeah, that’s the story of Zombie Cat. I feel bad for Zombie Cat, because it’s really a reflection of all of us. I mean, even though we get mangled by the cosmos and become thoroughly unattractive, in the end, all we really want is a bit of love. Am I right?