“Here’s the assignment, said Hank.” Hank was the head of advertising for the agency.
“We’ve gotta sell some cat food for a new client. If we do good on this we could land a contract to handle all of their advertising. I’m talking millions of dollars and fat raises. So let’s sell some fucking cat‐food.”
“I’ve got it,” Henderson said. Henderson was the idea guy. “We put the cat in a psychiatrist’s office on the couch.”
“Yeah, I like it. Then what?” Hank said.
“The cat is very depressed. We need to find a depressed cat, you know, one that looks depressed.”
“What does a depressed cat look like?”
“Stop interrupting. We use some sad violin music or a mournful Cello.”
“Now you’re talking.”
“And the cat says, I feel empty inside. And the Doctor is making notes and looking over his glasses at the cat, and the cat is very depressed, and then all at once, the depressing music stops, and we hear the sound of an electric can opener. The cat leaps from the couch as the doctor opens a can of Happy Cat.”
“That’s good. Anybody else?”
“I got one,” said Kuntberg. Kuntberg was an advertising genius. He had received every award.
“Okay,” he said. “It’s after the apocalypse. Think, “Road Warrior.” Our cat is dressed like the Mel Gibson character. You know? Black leather with metal studs. He’s driving a big truck. A gang of bad-ass cats are chasing him on motorcycles and dune buggies. He does some fancy driving and runs a few of them off the road. Then he throws a bomb and gets the rest. As he arrives at he fort with a load of Happy Cat in the back of the truck, all the girl cats rush in to worship the hero.”
“That’s why you get the big bucks Kuntberg. Great work. Anybody else?”
“Here it is,” said Lindeke. Lindeke was the free thinker; a surrealist.
“It’s in the desert. There are tall buildings made of brick that are shaped like cats with windows.”
“What? Bricks shaped like cats,” said Hank?
“Not bricks shaped like cat. Brick buildings shaped like cats
Anyway, it’s a lonely place. kind of like a Salvator Dali painting. Suddenly, a big hand comes out of the sky with a can of Happy Cat. All of the cat building turn into real cats and run to eat the cat‐food.”
“Wow, said Hank, that’s really out there. What do you guys think?”
“It’s edgy, said Henderson. Who’s our audience?”
“Cats are our audience, pay attention.” Henderson said, lighting a cigarette.
“Cats aren’t our audience, they don’t watch TV. The owners are the audience. Who owns cats? Old ladies, that’s who. We need to appeal to old ladies,” said Kuntberg.
“I own a cat,” said Henderson, “and I’m not an old lady.”
“That’s right,” Hank said, “I’ve got a cat and I’m not an old lady either.”
“So, who are we trying to convince?” said Kuntberg.
“I’ve got it, said Henderson. The scene opens in a large mansion with butlers and maids standing in line as the master of the house, who happens to be a cat, walks down the long curved staircase and past the butlers and maids lined up at attention and into a large dining room with a very long table with candelabras and fine china. There are twenty cats seated at the table waiting for the guest of honor. The cat takes a seat at the head of the table and rings a little bell. In walks a line of waiters dressed in black tuxedos carrying crystal goblets of Happy Cat.
The voiceover says, “Happy Cat, Not just for special occasions.”
“That’s good everybody. All good ideas. Work them up for presentation tomorrow morning.”
Hank dismissed the meeting and everyone went to work on the new ideas. Hank went to his office and closed his door and picked up the phone.
“Hello Marge,” he said.
Marge was Hank’s wife of twenty years. Do we have a cat?”
“Hank,” said Marge, “what are you talking about?”
“Do we have a cat, Marge, It’s a simple question?”
“We’ve been married twenty years and you don’t even know if we have a cat?”
“We’ve been married twenty years?” said Hank. “Christ, where does the time go?”
“Never mind that,” said Marge. “Why don’t you even know if we have a cat or not?”
“Give me a break, will ya, I don’t even know what color your pussy hair is.”
“Hang on a moment, Hank.”
A man’s voice came on the phone. “Hello,” said the man’s voice. “For your information, your wife has blond pussy hair and I’m looking at it right now.”
Hank slammed the phone down.
“Goddamn cheating bitch,” he said. Hank hit the button on the intercom.
“Ms. Cunningham, I need you in my office.”
A moment later miss Cunningham was by Hank’s desk.
“What is it sir,” she said?
“Do you have a cat?”
“No sir. I’m allergic to cats.”
“That’s too bad,” said Hank. “By the way, my wife and I are splitting up.”
Ms. Cunningham seemed upset. “I’m sorry, sir, is there anything I can do?”
“My wife is with another man. He’s over at my house looking at my wife’s pussy hair.”
“Blond,” said Marge.
“What?” said Hank.
“Blonde. Your wife has blond pussy hair.”
“Christ. Everybody knows my wife has blond pussy hair but me.”
“We work out at the same health club,” said Marge. “I’ve seen her in the shower.”
“That will be all Marge. I’m going to lunch. I’ll be back in an hour.”
Marge went back to her desk. Hank looked at the samples cans of Happy Cat sitting on his desk with the pop‐top cans. He popped one open and smelled it, then he picked up a plastic spoon and tasted it. Not bad, he thought. Not bad at all.