Posted by on Aug 31, 2017 | 15 comments

Space Suit











(Reprinted from long ago, 6 years ago in fact) inspired by Raena Belle dressed for a Fashionista happening!)

Here’s a doozy!!! Every morning mama weighs herself, as I might have mentioned, and then she picks me up when I least suspect it and then weighs the two of us. For a couple of days now, she has been shocked, puzzled and then horrified to learn that this Cat Watcher’s torturous minimal disgusting diet, on which they have put me (note the grammatical correctness of the arrangement of words; mama is a ball-buster for that and I have to speak properly or not at all) has not only not been working—I have actually GAINED 100 grams of roly-poly kitty fat and mama didn’t want to tell papa because all of her good-hearted efforts were for naught and so they had a discussion about what to do and, as it is with most disagreements, the actual information about my body, which is my temple, was erroneous!

Mama thought the vet had said that I weigh 5.3 kg and she found out (mama, not the vet) that the vet had actually written in ink 5.6 kg and so I had in reality LOST a bunch of fat and was on the road to becoming a manquin for Cat’s Magazine modeling those ridiculous suits that owners insist their pets wear when actually the poor animal himself or herself (I will NOT use ‘theirselves’) feels like a fool and only goes along with it to pacify his human. Listen, when I was fixed—spayed, neutered, chopped and channelled, what have you—the veterinarian (yes, the very same one who said to feed me ONLY kibble, just imagine—I know there’s a mafioso in there somewhere from the kibble makers) gave mama a little pink four-legged suit to put on me so that I wouldn’t lick my wounds, so to speak, and when mama brought it home and showed it to me (there was even a Miss Kitty sort of emblem on the left side and you could bet your puss in boots that you would not catch me DEAD in this suit, and me, a wounded, operated-upon kitty in a fragile state. cat-sweater

But when I saw that four-armholed tee shirt (it wasn’t the one above, actually this one is much slicker than the one mama dangled in front of me), I went straight for my under-the-bed hiding place and disappeared until I felt the scene had cleared. Mama was in hysterics, laughing the way she laughs when she tells herself her own joke and cracks up, which is pretty weird but yes, she does that and then papa says, “Mama—pleased with self” and gets a kick out of it, too, but this tee-shirt really doubled her over. “Maybe I’ll wear it,” she said between chokes, “it’s my size!” Hee hee hee hee…this went on forever and I, suffering post-operative syndrome, went where I always go in these moments—to ninna nanna land. A few words on clothes next time…

(No, there won’t, haha)


Look, mama, NO SCAR!!!