An obese cat often prowls around the temple of Earth God in the No. 2 Park of our community. Furtively it stalks to the graybeards who play the game of Go, hanging about their feet under the stone table; shifty-eyed and restless, it is alert to every sound and movement and ready to slink away any time. A dull, well-entrenched leeriness keeps it always on its toes. Its way of living is sneaking the leftlovers after the Go meeting. When fully gorged, it would sprawl out on the grass basking in the sun, snoring away the afternoon. Once in a while it would have a sudden whim to sprint across the field to chase a certain insect. But soon its vigor would wane and die out after a 20-meter dash. It would fall prostrate on the ground, groaning, gasping for air, and grumble about the slippery track, which did not meet international standards.
To put it in a nutshell, it is characterized by obesity, sponging off others, and whitish fur which is never cleaned. We can presumably call it "Fat Bum White" or "Hobo White."
Corpulence is not a sin. Scrounging free meals might arise from unspeakable difficulties. But Hobo White's biggest problem is, chirp, even if it is an abject coward before human beings, it becomes a bully before birds. It drove out and cowed the birds nearby with threats. When it saw the sparrows, which pecked up a few grains of rice after laborious foraging in the garbage, being scared away, it would, beside itself, howl with laughter and burst out, "How dare you provoke the tiger? Let's see if you dare to invade my turf next time!"
Hobo White dare not fight with me. Look at my fine physique! It perfectly understands it's not my rival, so it can only wield its bitter, biting tongue. While I was watching the flowers serenely in the garden, it would caper behind my back and yell, "Fat bird! Roll like a ball over here and prepare to die!" Once as I was observing the wriggle of an earthworm attentively, it crept towards me and shouted into my ears, "Meow!" and then skipped off giggling. I can accept its immature behavior since we must tolerate the imperfection of this world to show our magnanimity. But that night, it cut me to the quick. It entered the minefield by mistake. Bang! My patience finally broke and I blew up! I asked myself. In what does dignity reside? Had I remained silent, the honor of chickens and birds would have gone for good.
I have to admit that when some creatures whose acts are far below the moral standard keep appearing in sight, they approach us, smirking and driveling and we have no choice but to exchange a few civilities affectedly, there is always an indignant voice resounding inside, "Shouldn't anyone shut them up?" "Shouldn't anyone discipline them?"
It was a night when the pouring rain had just stopped. As usual, Hobo White was in company with the old men who played Go. When my lithe figure glided in its vision, it ran cheerfully toward me, holding a small bone in its jaws, exclaiming:
"Fat bird! Crispy fried chicken! I got crispy fried chicken to eat!"
Unforgivable.
I told it. There was food far tastier than crispy fried chicken. "It is a traditional delicacy of your race. You can't catch it at your usual speed. Down the long narrow 85 alley, a fluffy, fleshy rat is spellbound, with its mouth and limbs stuck on a board, not different from a meal in a dish at all. You've never tried rats since birth, have you? Now's your chance. Prove to your forefathers that you're a one hundred percent authentic, feline cat!"
Hobo White rushed to 85 alley. 15 minutes later, it hobbled out of the alley with a glue trap adhered to its mouth. It wagged its head reeling down the street and painfully rubbed its face against the wall in a corner. However it tried, it still couldn't get rid of the board. It glared at me, purple with rage but couldn't utter a word anymore.
To put it in a nutshell, it is characterized by obesity, sponging off others, and whitish fur which is never cleaned. We can presumably call it "Fat Bum White" or "Hobo White."
Corpulence is not a sin. Scrounging free meals might arise from unspeakable difficulties. But Hobo White's biggest problem is, chirp, even if it is an abject coward before human beings, it becomes a bully before birds. It drove out and cowed the birds nearby with threats. When it saw the sparrows, which pecked up a few grains of rice after laborious foraging in the garbage, being scared away, it would, beside itself, howl with laughter and burst out, "How dare you provoke the tiger? Let's see if you dare to invade my turf next time!"
Hobo White dare not fight with me. Look at my fine physique! It perfectly understands it's not my rival, so it can only wield its bitter, biting tongue. While I was watching the flowers serenely in the garden, it would caper behind my back and yell, "Fat bird! Roll like a ball over here and prepare to die!" Once as I was observing the wriggle of an earthworm attentively, it crept towards me and shouted into my ears, "Meow!" and then skipped off giggling. I can accept its immature behavior since we must tolerate the imperfection of this world to show our magnanimity. But that night, it cut me to the quick. It entered the minefield by mistake. Bang! My patience finally broke and I blew up! I asked myself. In what does dignity reside? Had I remained silent, the honor of chickens and birds would have gone for good.
I have to admit that when some creatures whose acts are far below the moral standard keep appearing in sight, they approach us, smirking and driveling and we have no choice but to exchange a few civilities affectedly, there is always an indignant voice resounding inside, "Shouldn't anyone shut them up?" "Shouldn't anyone discipline them?"
It was a night when the pouring rain had just stopped. As usual, Hobo White was in company with the old men who played Go. When my lithe figure glided in its vision, it ran cheerfully toward me, holding a small bone in its jaws, exclaiming:
"Fat bird! Crispy fried chicken! I got crispy fried chicken to eat!"
Unforgivable.
I told it. There was food far tastier than crispy fried chicken. "It is a traditional delicacy of your race. You can't catch it at your usual speed. Down the long narrow 85 alley, a fluffy, fleshy rat is spellbound, with its mouth and limbs stuck on a board, not different from a meal in a dish at all. You've never tried rats since birth, have you? Now's your chance. Prove to your forefathers that you're a one hundred percent authentic, feline cat!"
Hobo White rushed to 85 alley. 15 minutes later, it hobbled out of the alley with a glue trap adhered to its mouth. It wagged its head reeling down the street and painfully rubbed its face against the wall in a corner. However it tried, it still couldn't get rid of the board. It glared at me, purple with rage but couldn't utter a word anymore.
