For anyone who has ever taken a Dr. Douglas King class at Gannon University, it’s a fact that each day is full of the unexpected.
From ridiculous anecdotes to absurd jokes that leave the class chuckling, it’s tough to argue that DK is not — to say the least — entertaining.
With that being said, when I walked into Drama of Shakespeare Thursday afternoon, never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined what was about to occur.
The class started off in a predictable manner with stories of DK’s recent trip to a Shakespeare conference. We were both enlightened and charmed by his musings.
Our focus shifted back to the archaic text “Henry V.” Just as we buckled down on Act 2, Scene 3, a straggler entered the classroom a tad late.
Each member of the class did the typical glance up to see who the infamous interrupter was, and then we casually moved on as it was of no further interest to us.
However, things were about to get strange — really strange. Like, “Is this real life?” kind of strange.
From my prominent place in the front row of the classroom, I gradually began to notice a slight disturbance coming from the back of the room — more specifically from the infamous interrupter I mentioned earlier.
The latecomer demurely apologized and explained that she didn’t want to cause any distraction. This “distraction” came in the form of four baby kittens stowed away in a fuzzy blue tote bag.
I can’t make this kind of stuff up. This woman literally came to class armed with a bag of kittens.
Why? That is a really good question.
Apparently “Mamma Cat” is missing in action, so to speak, and the kittens were left to fend for themselves.
Naturally the most rational decision is to pack them up and smuggle them into the Palumbo Academic Center — as if there was any doubt about it.
Once I finally grasped the scope of the situation before me, I couldn’t imagine that a distraction wasn’t foreseen or intended.
As everyone gaped in awe over the tiny feline babies, King attempted to pull in the attention of his students. And he failed. Drastically.
Struggling over the chorus of kitten cries that filled the room, there was no focus left to be found for Mr. William Shakespeare.
Instead all that could be done was laugh. And we all laughed because what else could we do?
Here we were, sitting in Drama of Shakespeare, anticipating a riveting discussion on the tone of “Henry V,” and what we got instead was an intense game of “pass the kitten.”
I can honestly say I have never in my entire life expected nor imagined that a mundane Thursday afternoon could become a ridiculous kitten circus.
As you can imagine, the new additions to the class didn’t add much to the discussion aside from a few cries of hunger and confusion.
King must’ve felt the same way. He hesitantly announced, “Alright, I don’t think this is going to work…” and with that, the kittens were banished from Room 3243 and sent to the Commuter Corner, never to been seen again.
