Jonathan is not fond of my cat, Wilbur.
He let me rescue her as a tiny little cottenball that was shivering in my unfinished basement 4 years ago. He is not a cat person, though.
I adore Wilbur…she’s tiny, moody, she really only lets me hold and pet her and even then it isn’t for long. She is bizarre…I have to kick her bowl so she can hear her food rattle before she will eat anything. She’s defiant, high strung and a total and complete ho.
She has been “Fixed” after having two litters. Those were not my fault (and I am glad she had them, because she has some adorable kitties…Trent’s cat, “Moo” is her baby). After the first litter she got out of the house exactly ONCE for 20 minutes. When I took her to the vet to get the procedure it was too late!!!!!
She is my cat, after all.
We we did finally have the deed done, we were assured that fixing her would put a damper on being woken up at 3 am by her howling in “Frustration”. Jon’s inevitable statement during these times: “Have I Told You I Hate Your Cat?.
She STILL goes into heat. It is annoying. We are often subjected to her nightly hookups. She has slept with every cat known to mankind, I swear. I am not educated in the sexual activity of cats so I can’t tell if this is voluntary on her part, or gang-rape…SOUNDS like it could be either.
Jon can only blame himself. He is the one who started throwing her out onto the mean streets of North Logan at night.
Ummm…this is Jonathan’s NAVY jacket. Oh, dear…
RUN, WILBUR!!! RUN LIKE THE WIND!!!!
Now that I have saved Wilbur from becoming the next PETA victim poster cat, I’m going back to playing the air-ukelale to “Man of Constant Sorrow” and prancing around my living room.
You think I’m kidding…