Views of TK

A closer look at the creature.


If I were suddenly reduced to the size of a cockroach, my cat TK would chase me, and catch me. He would toss me around savagely. What a muffin! Then, with his surgically sharp clawsy-wawsies, he would disembowel me, and plunge his pink little nosey-wosey directly into my exposed and glistening intestines, until his teethy-weethies were soaked in my blood, and the room was filled with both my pitiful miniature screams and his little mewls of pleasure.

TK the killer.


Were TK, my cat, to overcome his fear of water, and learn to use keys, he could put on a waistcoat, exit the apartment, and jaunt the half-block to the Gowanus Canal, whistling a song about rivers and streams. Coming to the canal's edge, he might dip a paw into the Gowanus' odious blue-green waters, to test the temperature, or (more like him) he might hastily dunk his orange head all the way under, and, smiling, greet the fishes—and then, slash.

TK the fisherman.


His forebears, with their forepaws, crept through history without writing down a word. This is what I know about him: he grew up as a street hustler, and is missing a part of his left ear. His mother and father are out there, if they survived, along with his enemies, and his ladies, and maybe some of his children mill the streets—a tribe of lost kittens, sans-mittens. He has a tattoo across his stomach that says “thug life,” but he's gotten fat, so now you'd pronounce it “thuuuug liiifffee.”

I hate administering his medicine. He hisses and scratches and writhes. He's fighting the whole way, figures this is it. When I'm done smearing the ointment into his eye I release my grip, and he slides out of my arms as if I had been holding air, and he heads for the deeps beneath the bed.

He is full of life, if life is sleep—a lump on the floor curled next to a towel, belying his status as killer, whisperer, leaper, whiner, reaper, and reminder.




Ftrain.com is the website of Paul Ford and his pseudonyms. It is showing its age. I'm rewriting the code but it's taking some time.


There is a Facebook group.


You will regret following me on Twitter here.


Enter your email address:

A TinyLetter Email Newsletter

About the author: I've been running this website from 1997. For a living I write stories and essays, program computers, edit things, and help people launch online publications. (LinkedIn). I wrote a novel. I was an editor at Harper's Magazine for five years; then I was a Contributing Editor; now I am a free agent. I was also on NPR's All Things Considered for a while. I still write for The Morning News, and some other places.

If you have any questions for me, I am very accessible by email. You can email me at ford@ftrain.com and ask me things and I will try to answer. Especially if you want to clarify something or write something critical. I am glad to clarify things so that you can disagree more effectively.


Syndicate: RSS1.0, RSS2.0
Links: RSS1.0, RSS2.0


© 1974-2011 Paul Ford


@20, by Paul Ford. Not any kind of eulogy, thanks. And no header image, either. (October 15)

Recent Offsite Work: Code and Prose. As a hobby I write. (January 14)

Rotary Dial. (August 21)

10 Timeframes. (June 20)

Facebook and Instagram: When Your Favorite App Sells Out. (April 10)

Why I Am Leaving the People of the Red Valley. (April 7)

Welcome to the Company. (September 21)

“Facebook and the Epiphanator: An End to Endings?”. Forgot to tell you about this. (July 20)

“The Age of Mechanical Reproduction”. An essay for TheMorningNews.org. (July 11)

Woods+. People call me a lot and say: What is this new thing? You're a nerd. Explain it immediately. (July 10)

Reading Tonight. Reading! (May 25)

Recorded Entertainment #2, by Paul Ford. (May 18)

Recorded Entertainment #1, by Paul Ford. (May 17)

Nanolaw with Daughter. Why privacy mattered. (May 16)

0h30m w/Photoshop, by Paul Ford. It's immediately clear to me now that I'm writing again that I need to come up with some new forms in order to have fun here—so that I can get a rhythm and know what I'm doing. One thing that works for me are time limits; pencils up, pencils down. So: Fridays, write for 30 minutes; edit for 20 minutes max; and go whip up some images if necessary, like the big crappy hand below that's all meaningful and evocative because it's retro and zoomed-in. Post it, and leave it alone. Can I do that every Friday? Yes! Will I? Maybe! But I crave that simple continuity. For today, for absolutely no reason other than that it came unbidden into my brain, the subject will be Photoshop. (Do we have a process? We have a process. It is 11:39 and...) (May 13)

That Shaggy Feeling. Soon, orphans. (May 12)

Antilunchism, by Paul Ford. Snack trams. (May 11)

Tickler File Forever, by Paul Ford. I'll have no one to blame but future me. (May 10)

Time's Inverted Index, by Paul Ford. (1) When robots write history we can get in trouble with our past selves. (2) Search-generated, "false" chrestomathies and the historical fallacy. (May 9)

Bantha Tracks. (May 5)

Tables of Contents