Almost Heroic

        Being sick is remarkably effective in getting me to write a blog post. Combine a stomach flu with the additional encouragement of my cats and BAM! Post.

       I realize I haven't written about my cats much recently, oddly enough. I'm kind of a cat person. When I see a cat, I lose track of all interaction or sacredness of the moment and start chasing it around, desperately wanting to love the kitteh. I've always wanted one of those ridiculously luvvy-duvvy cats that cuddle with anything that moves and eventually fuse onto you.

        But my cats will do.

        Louis, my older cat, is essentially the perfect feline, mainly because he's only slightly less active than a brick and he has the gloriously toned body of a hairy pillow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           And then there's Jack. Jack's about a year and a half old, but he's not really a cat. He is a mutant beast, part squirrel, part dog, part chupacabra, trapped within a fuzzy, shock-orange body. He doesn't really know how to manage cuddles, or whether or not he wants them.

        However, one thing can be said for Jack. He's almost heroic. He fancies showers to be wicked acid chambers, and tries to save me from the bathroom every time I take one. I can hear the sound of him trying to pry open the door, even over the sound of my in-shower tribute to Adele. It sounds like he's trying to dismantle the hinges so he can burst in and save me. Or maybe he's trying to kill whatever foul beast is singing "Skyfall" as wonderfully off-key as I can.

        As soon as I open the door, he bursts in and tries to get me to pick him up, jogs with me to my room, and proceeds to try to kill my feet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

        He seriously needs to get his priorities together and pick a side. Since we first brought him home, he's been bipolar. He spent the first week hiding under our Christimas tree, squeaking at Louis and trying to figure out why all these big-faced oafs were cooing at him. Louis generally stayed away from everybody, since the Christmas magic had worn off a little early. It was pretty magical, by the way. I would take Jack up to my room and watch him sleep on my lap beneath the radioactive glow of my hideous white-and-neon Christmas tree as I contemplated the precious things in life, like pizza. I guess we nurtured his-self-esteem a little too much, because one day, he snapped.

         

    Thank his lucky star's he's not ugly. If he wasn't an orange mound of fabulousness, his renovations in our house's interior design and the occasional pony ride would have gone far less swimmingly than they have.

 

 

 

 

 

 
      

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

       

THE END

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

words and artwork copyright 2013 by Sabrina Smith