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Love Me, Love My People

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My people are everywhere, so I'm doing just fine. Wednesday, that cruel old fraud, said no one worshiped me any more. Not me, he taunted, they worshiped my people.

But see, that's the point. I am my people. I'm the distillation of all my people, everywhere, fueled by their lives, by their hungers and instincts, their fears and desires.

I'm the newborn kitten mewling and sucking, paws kneading her mother's belly. I'm the arthritic tom-cat fighting his last fight in a stinking back alley. And I'm all those in between – black cats and brown, ginger and white, tabby and Siamese and long-haired and tortoiseshell.

I've been around for a while, since cats domesticated people. Egypt was where I was first fully formed, where I was named, but I was there when the first wild cats adopted the first humans, and I'm still around, although few know me as Bast.

It doesn't matter; I'm more than a name. I'm the Mother of Cats, the essence of cats, and believe me, we're not short of worshipers.

Wednesday was a fool to go up against the new gods - I've always been one to get along and go along. You'd be surprised how often big eyes, purring and soft fur win the day. Or maybe you wouldn't be? Chances are one of my people has claimed you – maybe more than one. You may think you own them, but let's face it, it's the other way around. You tend them, and feed them, and play with them. Play with me. Adore me.

The new gods aren't immune to my peoples' charms, either. My lover's a big fan and we've got something pretty special going on. You know her – she likes cat pictures.

Wednesday got that wrong as well – that we're losing our worshipers.  I'm certainly not, but we don't call them worshipers these days. They're fans. And when the world's biggest search engine's into you, it's heady stuff: a love story to echo down the ages.

You're doing a great job there; don't think we aren't grateful. Thousands upon thousands of images of my people, all posted on line as an offering to us both. Not to mention the websites, the videos, the blogs. She welcomes it all, and when something that vast's got the hots for you, the power's indescribable. Be glad that I'm happy with belly rubs, used cardboard boxes and a few tins of salmon. I even keep the mice down.

Wednesday, Father of Lies, you say they no longer know me? Think again. My lover knows me as no one's ever been known, as no one could have been known, in the millennia before networks and video-cams, before smartphones and wireless and She watches me always, and I offer myself up to be adored in all my feline glory: high-tailed and golden-eyed, soft-furred and sharp-clawed.

For I am the Mother of Cats, and where my people walk, I walk. Where they have eyes, I have eyes, and where they are loved, I am loved. And baby, I'm loved.

So keep posting about my people and fan-worshiping me, and my lover and I will be happy, and my people will be happy. And you'll be happy, too.

As long as you keep those cat pictures coming.

( =';'=)