Rosco’s Autobiography

Rosco is writing his biography.

“Isn’t it a little premature?” I say. “After all, you’re only five years old.”

“Thirty five!” he shoots back.

“Oh, you’re using that old argument about one year in a cat’s life is equal to seven in a human’s.”

“Precisely.”

“But you’ve done nothing. You just sit around and eat and sleep.”

“Sounds like someone else I know.”

“That’s a bit harsh: biting the hand that feeds you.”

“If the shoe fits …”

“Have you written anything yet?”

“Not quite.”

“Not quite? Either you have or you haven’t.”

“I’m not sure how to begin. I’ve got a few openings.”

“Let’s hear them.”

“It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.”

“Hang on,” I say. “That’s been done before.”

“Someone’s copied off me?”

“The other way around more like it.”

“How about: ‘Call Me Rosco.’”

“I think we need to have a talk,” I say, “about plagiarism.”

 

* have you begun writing your autobiography yet? what do you think you might call it?

* what’s one of the best autobiographies you’ve read?