Knifekitten

When I was walking down to the basement of the dorm in my little gray shorts and the t-shirt I got from orientation, looking forward to buying a bag of potato chips and a 7Up, it occurred to me that Knifekitten is a kitten made of knives. Some of you may be curious as to why this was a surprise to me, as his (or her - Knifekitten's gender was not definite at that particular point in time) name clearly implies the two most salient features of Knifekitten: kitten and knife. To this I respond that before that realization Knifekitten was only a word, not an entity of kitten and knife or knife and kitten or pain and pleasure or sharp and fuzzy. The Knifekitten I know today is a visible, tangible force, existing in a state of flux as his other qualities (for as I consider it further, Knifekitten is certainly male at this point in his existence) are to be determined.

For example, is Knifekitten good or evil? He represents a clash between two archetypal imagistic forces: the cruel impersonality of knife versus the cuddly innocence of kitten. This struggle between his two sides is the key ingredient to any tragic antihero, and as I visualize Knifekitten in his daily interactions with kittens made out of other, less harmful materials (i.e. meat or perhaps butter), I see that his life is an unenviable one. As kitten, he is driven by instinct to be snuggly and soft, hunting out available warm spots and being posed in strange outfits for gag photos. As knife, he is continually reminded that no matter how many times he rolls in a blanket or a lap or is propped upright, given a pair of goggles, and is sat on a tiny motorcycle with a catnip doll in the sidecar, he can never truly be a kitten: the blanket is always torn, the lap is always injured, the tiny motorcycle damaged beyond repair. In my mind's eye, Knifekitten stands over the shredded wreckage of his tiny motorcycle, crying to the heavens, "What kind of God would create me, a bizarre contradiction of love and hate personified in kitten form?" After a second's thought, he would add "Meow," which he is fond of doing, as it reaffirms his faith in his kittenhood.

Also interesting is Knifekitten's relationship with Hammerdog, an entity of my own devising who is not related to Saturday-morning cartoon hero of my youth, Hammerman (although I think Hammerman did have a dog, who would transform with Hammerman when it was time to dance some funky hip-hop tune about saying no to gangs or drugs or questionable ideologies). Hammerdog occurred to me around Christmas break, when I was visiting school and shouting his name at people, and unlike Knifekitten it was immediately obvious that Hammerdog was both a force for good and constructed out of hammers. "Hammerdog is a dog made out of hammers!" I yelled at Andrew Fels, who evidently agreed. "He fights crime!" I elaborated. The two characters are separated by more than time, however: Hammerdog is rather boorish, although likeable, as he is not troubled by the philosophical and intellectual problems confronting Knifekitten. Hammerdog is also clearly more hammer than dog, as his head is a large claw hammer with eyes and a tongue, while Knifekitten, while rather vague, is a steely gray kitten with pointy edges and a troubled stare.

I see Knifekitten and Hammerdog as an unlikely crimefighting duo, a "brains and brawn" relationship in a way. Knifekitten has no illusions about the grim state of the world, and thus is more likely to work methodically and logically, while Hammerdog does the footwork, questioning inside sources and killing people with hammers. During dry spells, the pair hang out at Lodzce's Tavern, a dim bar run by a wise old Polish immigrant who soaks up information like the well-worn bar rag that he holds in his artificial hook hands. The pair engage in their favorite recreational activities: Knifekitten brooding over a shotglass of the cheap whiskey he favors, cursing God and pondering the latest case, and Hammerdog the extrovert pumping quarters into the jukebox (he prefers Finnish folk-metal and German trance-house-techno) and buying drinks for the womenfolk. Hammerdog's success with women (despite his blunt manner and hammer-based existence) is a major point of tension in his troubled relationship with Knifekitten, who fears intimacy as a result of his sharp, pointy body and his tragic affair with Clara Bow when he and Hammerdog traveled back through time to foil the schemes of Dr. Walter "Has A Large Squid For An Arm" Henneman. "I'm sorry!" he cried when the "It" Girl withdrew her lacerated hand and ran from the room. "Meow! Am I condemned to live my life without the comfort of a warm and loving companion?" Sobbing uncontrollably, he retired to the confines of the time machine to bathe and sharpen himself with his rasp-like tongue and to bat a ball of steel wool around listlessly.

Sadly, Knifekitten's life remains a cipher, something I invented on a chatroom when I was pretending to be a moody Goth. College education leaves little time for such flights of fancy as the Knifekitten, especially when I am compelled to nap so frequently in order to rejuvenate my writing talents. But he is not lost, for Knifekitten lives on in all of us-from the smallest doe-eyed toddler to the largest doe-eyed toddler and all categories of humanity and doe-eyed toddlers that can harness the necessary creative energy. I encourage you to fully realize the Knifekitten, whether through sketch or prose or poetry or song or perhaps governmental legislation, and to keep the dream alive. For as he himself said to me, "Only the hearts and minds of children can sustain me, and only the embittered cynicism of adulthood can snuff me out. Let everyone chronicle my adventures, whether in public or private, and breathe life into my actions until I am transformed into a folk hero of the modern era."

"Also, meow."