More cat stories
2006-03-22 - 12:35
before/after
strangely
non-functional guestbook
I sat in the bathtub and I needed to blow my nose. Looking
around, I couldn't find a kleenex. So I used the gym teacher's hanky. The farmer-blow. Right into the tub. I sat there and thought about it a little bit. There was no way I was
having a relaxing bath with a snot-mine floating around. Just no way
around it. It had to go. I dipped it out with a washcloth and laid it on the ledge of the bath
for later disposal. Most likely after work. It was a clear blob.
Idly I thought about how it would look all dried up. I think I did it
once and it turned green. Intruiging. By then the cat had muscled the door to the bathroom open. He hopped
up on the ledge of the bathtub. This is fine. Kitties step precisely, and he doesn't like stepping
into something wet. Nothing to worry about. He eyed up the counter for a jump, but changed his kitty-mind.
Turning around, he once again avoided it with his front paws, but
entirely mashed into it with his rear. No delicacy or grace
whatsoever. And he walked along the edge with one rear leg trying to shake it off.
It twirled lazily around in the air behind him with every shake,
swinging in wide, sticky arcs. Briefly I encountered the very real
possibility that he would again confront me with another of my bodily
fluids. Instead he lept to the floor, presuemably wiping it off on the carpet,
then licking his paw clean. Its kinda' anti-climactic until I think about my cat licking my huge
assed snot-rocket from his big, black paw. I felt bad, but there was
nothing I could do. -------------------------------------------------------
Last night I laid on the floor, watching the hockey game. My beloved
Detroit Red Wings were facing off against the Nashville Predators. My cat, Boo, lay placidly in front of me. I stroked his shiny and
sleek black coat almost hypnotically. It was soft from brushing and
the spray-on conditioner I had been applying for dandruff. He soaked
up the attention. The game came down to a shoot out, and with the game on the line, #19,
Steve Yzerman came to center ice to shoot. His eyes were a mask of
intensity, gone two black pits of fierce focus. He huffed a few
times, skated languidly down the ice, and gracefully sank the puck
into the net behind the goalie. He moved back to the bench with a
mixture of arrogance and bravado, the hero once again. A legend. "YEAHHH!!!" I cheered. I looked down at the kitty. He was recoiled in horror, his eyes also
intense, shocked, rudely disturbed from his quiet repose, his face a
mask of "WHAT the FUCK??!?".
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