Hear ye hear ye!

There is a new king of Peterborough and he wants everyone to know it. 

For those of you who have the displeasure of not knowing who the f*ck I’m talking about, at the end of my previous editorial, in an attempt to stop talking about myself, I inserted a photo of Gator and directed all further “fat orange little guy” inquiries to the editor's email. The responses, to put it lightly, have somewhat dominated our inbox.

As has become increasingly clear to me in the aftermath of my recent editorial, I have henceforth been dethroned in popularity by the same being which bites me every morning if his food bowl is—heavens forbid—half empty.

Full disclosure, I hesitated whether or not I was to continue this saga of publicly promoting my cat out of fear not for Gator, but for my own wellbeing. If any beloved Arthurians have ever had the immense pleasure of owning an orange cat, then you can concur that I speak no falsities when I state that orange cats are their own fucking breed entirely. Don’t get me wrong, I love Gator more than life itself and mention him at least four times a day (my editors will confirm) and even have a tattoo dedicated to my little guy, but I think lumping orange cats in with the rest of the general populace is not entirely fair to all non-orange felines.

This is all to say, I am making an executive decision to give the people what they want with a new column rightfully named “Gator Goes Global”, where every issue I will use this outlet solely to give the great citizens of Peterborough their much-awaited update on what Gator has been up to since we last spoke. 

That said, with every passing paragraph I can feel the lore of Gator’s namesake itching to be shouted to the masses.

Dear masses, have you seen the movie The Other Guys? The one with Will Ferrel and that racist bag of balls otherwise known as Mark Wahlberg? If yes, then you know the exact moment in time when Gator’s lore transcended the screen and was reborn into an overweight little boy with an affinity for tinfoil balls. If not, then please search “Gator The Other Guys” into YouTube.com and direct any praise, questions, or general “WTF?” to editors@trentarthur.ca with the subject line “How Dare You?”

Now, some of you may be asking how a single rather unknown cat belonging to a rather unknown editor could have captured the hearts of the Ptbo/Nogo community seemingly overnight? Well for starters, Gator has his own side of the bed. Yes, the bed that I bought with my own money in the house I pay rent in is dictated by an overweight ginger. When said side of the bed is taken, I am awoken from my depraved slumber to a swat in the face as a reminder that contrary to my lease, I don’t actually run the rules in this house. 

Additionally, my neighbours have undoubtedly become dangerously close to calling animal control on me because of the blood-curdling screams ringing through the walls. Fear not, residents of London Street, such a scream is the result of Gator not being the centre of attention for approximately three minutes. Honestly though, who can truly blame him? He’s just a little guy—what’s a little guy to do? 

However, do not mistake my presumed complaining for anything but complete devotion and adoration of my little guy—he does not allow me to sleep, eat, or work without reminding me that the world revolves around him and truthfully, I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Gator is my sweet little boy and I am nothing but his willful servant in this life. 

Hence: this column. When I started my editorship at this filthy rag I did not expect my legacy to be comprised of City Hall, books, and my cat, but looking back at my o-so innocent self in May, this was the only way the cookie could have crumbled. 

It is my immense pleasure to add to my CV a column dedicated to my cat in this lovely, sparkling rag, and I can vouch that Gator’s ego is nearly brimming at capacity with this exciting news. 

Until next time, please enjoy this free Gator sample.

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