The Walter Papers

This is Walter. I first must profusely apologize for the grammar and spelling errors which this journal shall surely entail. English, the language of these peasant people, is confusing and symbolically lacking in the concise meaning of my native tongue. Cat, the English word for our beloved species in this dimension, is a beautifully simple language. Purr is happy. Soft meow is wonder. Loud meow is feed me. No meow is indifference. Sure, we have our complex notions, purr then bite is derision, but those nuances are lost on the simpletons for which I have been task with examining.

But I digress. My apology for the grammatical content of this tome surely accepted, I shall move on. I do not have much time as the humans, as they collectively call themselves, are sleeping. I never know when they will wake up. They sleep an unaturally short amount of time during the day and mostly at night. I never know when one of them shall arise and demand my attention to surely demonstrate some aspect of their culture that is childish and inane.

At any rate, I wish to record my finding here on this primitive electronic device so that my future brethren may learn from my experience. I too dream of a future where the keys to the proverbial wet cat food factory are within our reach, but I have come to realize that my purpose in this life (not the other 8) is better served as a documentarian. I shall record my finding, experiences, and most certainly my superior opinions.

And yes, my future brethren, I am using my tongue to type this. One letter, one lick, one click at a time. I know you may have gone aghast at me using such a complicated and extraordinary piece of technology to type, but do understand, these barbarians have left me no choice. They actually use their hands to type. They use their hands to eat. Let me say that again. They use their hands to eat. Can you imagine? Eating with the very things you use to experience the outside world? And because they are so hand-centric, I have no port to interface my mind with their computer to transmit my thoughts into the digital realm. The piece of technology which can be used to teleport between dimensions must be utilized as a typing utensil. It is unfortunately, my only choice.

Disgusting? Barbaric? Friends, the act of typing is but a glimpse into the chaotic purgatory for which I have been thrust. As I have said, I hope my observations shall aid our future explorers, as the great Princess Spooforth of Agage litter patterns were to… I must go. I hear stirring. Till the morrow my friends.