Good evening, Dr. Ralph.

Is it Caturday? I don’t even know. I worked like a million hours yesterday so forgive me if I can’t get a grip on left from right, up from down, the days of the week or how many cats I have. (Six if you count the four strays I’m feeding outside. DO NOT JUDGE ME I’VE ONLY NAMED ONE.)

But don’t nobody care about me and my woe-is-me-I’m-so-busy sob story. Least of all my cats.

Nope.

[PS - Upon uploading this picture, I promptly slowly dragged myself out of bed and removed that old picture of Stew and me. I forgot about it. I'm in my house (and awake) for like 15 minutes a day. Lay off.]

Sometimes I wonder if they wonder where I am all the time when I disappear for 14-hour stretches. But then I realize that–much like the honey badger–Ralph and Weaz simply don’t give a shit.

I mean, I leave them plenty of food and water. They poop in a box (most of the time). They sleep all the time. And Ralph runs this joint anyway.

I'M A MF BOSS, SON.

I operate under the assumption that that little black mass looms over me while I sleep every night just waiting for me to feed her again…

Weaz mostly doesn’t know what’s going on ever.

Shmeh?

But be not fooled. She’s a tricky little weasel. I caught that conniving nugget all up in my underwear drawer last night…

BUSTED

I was going to sell them on the Ebay...