Does anyone enjoy a talking cat at 5am?

On a Saturday?

If so, email me.

I will wrap her up, ship her, and a month’s supply of food to you.

She has become an obnoxious interloper in my life.

Ok, I get it, when I need to get up for work.

She sees the sun rising and insists on an eating frenzy.

But the weekends?

She is a scrawny, emaciated, skeleton of a normal cat.

She only weighs 5 lbs, tops, and is 14 years old.

She is a runt.

She is the ultimate actress:  She glances in the mirror and sees herself as the king of the forest.

A lioness.

All 5 lbs.

And a pain in the ass, every morning.

I am tired, already, and it only 6pm.

When I went shopping, guess what she was doing?

Yup.

Sleeping.

And as soon as she heard the door open this afternoon, she put on the starving act and insisted on another can of food.

Sorry, folks, I would love to blog about serious stuff and all that jazz, but not tonight.

Puff is in control.

A perfectly lovely Saturday night, eradicated by the 5 lb monster, whom I happen to live with.

Good night.

Sleep tight.

I will be back, Puff willing, at 5am tomorrow.

 

Wolf

 

 

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