If the Oak Room Closes, where will the cats go? If there is no cabaret, where will we sing and dance? If there is no more supper club, where will we dine? If there is no Round Table, where will we discuss important topics? Mr. Ross would be so sad! We mustn’t let him down. Bring back the Oak Room! Bring back the Algonquin Round Table!
I can’t take it. I WANTED to be that cat, now I can’t bare to read the news. She is in QUEENS? Queens do not LIVE in Queens! They lounge on luggage carts in plush palaces–their rightful thrones. How could this happen? I need to find her. I will save her and restore dignity.
Complaining about Matilda? Who complains about history? Who de-thrones a QUEEN? A queen who has mingled, awed and inspired guests from across the world, and dutifully attended to regal appearances and obligations since her appointment in the 1930′s by Frank Case. She dined with the likes of Dorothy Parks, Robert Benchley, Frank Sullivan and Robert Sherwood at the Algonquin Round Table and now she is where?
Does Mayor Mike not recognize Matilda’s rightful place in history?
They say Matilda had no comment as she packed her bags. Horrifying. Queens always have comments. Has she lost her stealth? Her sparkle? Her slink? Her sing?
I am coming for you Matilda. We will celebrate in grand fashion on May 1st with choice caviar and savory salmon. And dignity shall be restored at the Algonquin.
I look in the mirror and I see perfection. I look at photos and I see royalty. I look at humans looking at me and I see them gasp and imagine what they must be thinking:
“Exquisite!” or “Legendary!” or…something like that.
Why then, I ask myself, do I continue to live this plebeian lifestyle wIth misfits? I found a book on learning to love thyself. I already love myself. A lot. I don’t have a problem loving me. It’s these misfits I wive with…they are the ones I don’t love. They love me, of course. But they love everybody. They slobber, wag, purr, fetch, dance and the worst offense: they come when they are called. Nimwits.
I don’t see how learning to love myself more could possibly help me now.
My name is Lila. I am not in pain. But I suffer greatly. I live with two dogs, and another cat- all from uncertain backgrounds: “unknown” origins. I am the only pure bred of the group. Translation: I am not one of them. I want to be famous. I want to be as famous as Matilda. I want to live in the Algonquin. I don’t want to replace her. She is as beautiful as I am–well, almost. We could live in harmony, side by side, I am certain.
I want more. I want the life of Rusty, Hamlet and Matilda…the illustrious Algonquin cats. While they’ve nibbled from champagne goblets, I scrounge soggy kibble from tupperware. I hear their mews. I recognize their tails. I hunger for their glory. I want to be that cat.
“I Want to Be That Cat” is the saga of a feline beauty queen who hungers for fame. She thirsts for the theatrical and lusts for the lavish. Illusions of grandeur fill her furry head, and she dreams she lives the life of “Matilda, the Algonquin Cat.” She yearns for her own private birthday parties, (pur-FURably with guests lists of no fewer than 150 friends.) She pines for the paparazzi, the glitz, the clamor and glamour. She waits for the moment the world will stop and stare, ooh and aah in wonderment: “Is it really THAT CAT?” they will proclaim. She dreams of seeing her face splashed across buildings and billboards in TImes Square, and on the cover of “Cat Fancy Magazine” –her sensational tail told in the morning mews. She pants at the mere notion of her own fan mail and a kitty webpage. Her desires are few, really. To be the queen. To rule the roost. To hobnob with heavyweights. To graze on gravy. To lounge on luggage carts. To slumber in furry slippers, or even just once, greet the guests at the Algonquin. She wants to be that cat.