top of page

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.”

Jim Zola 675DC4F9-2C15-4B6C-B6DA-57E28D416349.jpeg
bottom of page