My cat Sam is a remarkable individual, and he's someone I've always wanted to know better. Being a cat, though, he tends to keep a lot of himself in reserve. I feel a distance. Other times he appears determined to break through, I sense the desire for some kind of emotional intimacy on his part. Sometimes this can be slightly unnerving, as if he's trying to warn me of some imminent catastrophe. "Flee, tsunami."

William S. Burroughs loved his cats, and often wrote about them in his diaries. I wonder if he'd have liked Sam. I like to think Sam and William S. Burroughs would've gotten along just fine, and that in some twisted way this suggests that William S. Burroughs would get along with me as well. Not only get along with me, but like me tremendously and seek out my company, call me on the phone just to chat, write me rambling letters in spidery old-man cursive from Tangiers or Lawrence, KS. Not only like me but admire me. Not only admire me but secretly resent my brilliance and sparkling personality. So you see, thinking about my cat Sam inevitably leads to a pleasant daydream in which I'm resented by William S. Burroughs.