My cat’s a lucky dog. I’ll be leaving everything to him in my will. You see, I’m my father’s first-born son, as he was my grandfather’s first-born, and so on for as far back as we can trace the genealogy. This venerable tradition has ended with me, I’m afraid, as I’ve produced no male heir. I suspect wearing tight pants all my life has had something to do with it. So I’m in the process of making my orange tabby, Ludwig, a sort of ersatz heir to my estate. I am already speaking with lawyers about giving him my surname. Once we work out all the legal details, he will get the Jacuzzi, the bar, the books, the guitar, the car, and some other undisclosed assets tucked away in a Swiss bank—in short, everything I own. Should I die, my wife and daughters will get something much better: fond memories of my wit and charm. Ludwig, however, will carry on the Viator name and get to live the life of a king, a role that befits his lion-like appearance and imperious attitude.
