This entry will be about my cat. I know “they” say writing about your cat is a big no-no when you’re a serious blogger, but fuck “them.” It’s my fucking blog, and I’ll write about what pleases me. And today, it pleases me to write about Flufflebutt (aka The Shredder). Also, I’ve never called myself a “serious” blogger. Actually, I’ve never called myself a “serious” anything. So there.
My cat will be 17 this year. I think that’s 472,000 in human years. Despite her age, she’s still sharp in the noodle and has no health problems – aside from being enormously fat. But that just makes her cuter and fluffier and funnier and more squeezable. Squishy kitties are the bestest. And yes, I just said that.
Regardless of the fact that she’s nearly immortal, her claws are like dagger blades which have not dulled with age or lack of killing things, and her preferred sharpening tool is my bare legs. I never had the heart to get her declawed, which has not only resulted in the destruction of several furniture sets, but has also been the culprit behind the reason I never wear skirts anymore. My legs are her scratching posts (especially when I’m sitting at my computer), and she’s sharpening her talons of death as I type this. And it hurts. Really hurts. Which makes me wonder why I’m petting her and talking to her like she’s a good cat.
Felines are power-hungry (ow! she just bit my leg because I stopped petting her! fucking carnivore!) control freaks who crave attention and demand to have their egos (and fur) stroked, so there’s only one rule to remember if you ever visit my home:
Respect my pussy. And stroke as needed.