Gordon Kippola
Sylvester the Cat: Psychiatrist
“Life ith but a dream,” Sylvester said, “don’t look down
when thuthpended in air if you run off the edge of a cliff.
You’ll plummet to your death much leth often, yeth?”
Wile E. Coyote grimaced. “Last week, I painted
a tunnel on a massive stone canvas to fool Meep,
to trap him or smash in his beak, but he ran
through image and mountain. Granite opened
a portal, negating God’s laws of matter and energy.
Which then boomeranged. I was killed again, Doc,
by an oncoming train that I never conceived—
that I knew to be false. Even so, I was wrecked.
Sylvester gestured at a diploma
[The ACME School of Shrinking Heads]
then a taxidermist-mounted tweety bird.
“Command your reality, or thuffer it.”
Cat and Coyote sat silent the rest of their session.
A bell chimed. Wile E. Coyote extended his paw
to bump paws with Sylvester the Cat. “Thanks,
Doc, I believe there’s a grave I’m ready to paint.”
