Page Three – Weighing In…

Me, fat? No way, Jose.

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 or itself feels like a fool and only goes along with it to pacify his/her/its anthro.

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 have me wear so I wouldn’t scratch my scar!

UNBELIEVEABLE. What does that vet think kitties have in their little furry heads…spaghetti?  I wouldn’t touch a healing wound with ten-foot paw if you paid me.

And mama took one look at that dumb jumpsuit for fixed felines and said, ‘You know, Loulou, if I cut off one set of paw holes and sewed them up, I could wear it myself.”

HAHA, mama you are a trip!

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 to me, “Mama—pleased with self” and gets a kick out of it, too, but this hot pink four-sleeved tee-shirt really doubled her over.

This went on forever and I, clearly suffering post-operative syndrome, went where I always go in these moments—to nina nana land.

And by the way, I healed just fine and that was that, whatever that means.  I think I’m repeating myself, I may have published this fiasco some years ago…

I may publish Page Four…we’ll see.

(PS I was NEVER going to wear that garment…)

By the way, all typos and messes in yesterday’s blog, and there were too many, are FIXED (hate that word).