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