Bismarck the Dive Bomber

His opening gambit failed. He had sacrificed the white queen hoping that her fall would bring a renewal of his human’s attention. Regrettably, the human had taken the fallen chess piece in his monkey hand, raised it, and continued to play the game, thereby diverting his gaze once again away from the only being on the table worthy of true eminence, a gray tabby cat named Bismarck.

Bismarck curled his whiskers. Being a feline, he was smarter than the mostly hairless ape who ‘owned’ him. And he had seen the solution to the human’s chess problem long in advance. Having no means by which to communicate verbally with the human he had tried other clues. A wistful glance here, a soft purr there. Alas, the human had gleaned nothing from Bismarck’s sharp, cunning green eyes; not even the fact that Bismarck was hungry and that the bipedal slightly evolved gorilla should quit his chess silliness and feed the beast.

This is no justice in the world, Bismarck thought and blinked his eyes tragically.  Were it not for his lack of opposable thumbs and ability to open doors Bismarck might procure his own food. Out in the world Bismarck tracked prey with the precision and determination of a stealth pilot. He located mice and delivered his paw as guillotine might deliver the King of France. In the house, however, he was captive; prisoner to the machinations of humans who traded in amorphous pieces of paper and plastic and who simply pulled food indolently from brown sacks rather than hunting their own. It made Bismarck rightfully indignant.

What if you were to have a massive coronary, human? What if you were to lay withering on the floor, unheeded and unloved? Who would open the big cold box then?

These and many other questions confronted Bismarck like so many hairballs as he stared down the chessboard, willing that the buffoon see the solution to his chess conundrum lay in moving the formerly fallen queen three spaces to her left. Bismarck took his paw and nudged her majesty to the appropriate square. The human prepared to scold Bismarck before seeing within the move the solution to his quandary. He paused then smiled. He stroked the cat satisfied with his own supposed ingenuity, not paying Bismarck the heed that was his do. So it goes. Genius is often unappreciated. At least now would come the food.

Except it didn’t. Emboldened by his own supposed sense of tactical process the human proceeded to set up yet another position, an even more difficult problem, one Bismarck feared might take the human the entire afternoon. The situation required more than a simple gambit; it necessitated a sacrifice.

Bismarck eyed the counter, noticing a cat sized space just in between the Oreos and the cutting board. He leapt deftly, pirouetting to face the refrigerator. The human looked up worried. He rushed over towards Bismarck. This time, though, the cat jumped atop the refrigerator and from there above a cabinet, avoiding the roof by an inch. The human gasped. Not knowing Bismarck’s proprioceptive prowess he wheeled around the kitchen desperately. “I’ll save you,” he said, not quite realizing the breath of his naiveté. Bismarck scoffed, then plunged to the chessboard, knocking the entire thing to the ground. The human careened, then rushed towards Bismarck, taking the perennially safe feline in his arm and expressing his deep concern and worry, stroking Bismarck to solace only himself.

This is it, Bismarck knew, meowing glancing suggestively towards his food bowl. The hapless and harried human rushed to the cold box took out the cold tuna and salmon, placing them before Bismarck. He ate with relish (Not literally but he could have had he so chosen). I’m the true Grandmaster, he thought before yawning and going to sleep on the couch.