Disclaimer: No pets die in this column (but they sometimes smell like they did).
As I write, I’m trying to relax in my recliner on a cold winter’s day next to a roaring fire, yet my feet are freezing because a large, semi-elderly cat named “Missy” – AKA “The Loaf” – is lounging on the fireplace hearth directly in front of the firebox and hogging all of the heat. “How did I reach this state?” you might wonder. So do I.
When my middle daughter was six years old, she looked up at me with her big, manipulative green eyes and said, “All I ever wanted was a baby Siamese.”
Unfortunately, I’ve never been a “cat person.” Most cats shed like middle-aged hippies, so if you spend any amount of time with them, you wind up looking like a body double for Chewbacca. Then there’s that special feline/surly teenager personality. If only they could roll their eyes and call you “bruh!”
Due to my lack of a backbone, however, I found myself on a quest to locate a Siamese kitten. Luckily, the search didn’t take long, and I didn’t have to go to Siam. I found Missy through a local rescue operation that was undoubtedly laughing at me as I drove away.
Life with Missy is all about HER. Unlike many cats, Missy actually enjoys a limited amount of petting. I think she considers it a type of massage therapy. When I pet Missy, I feel like I’m performing a service and should be tipped afterward.
During daytime hours, her signal that she wishes to make an appointment to be petted is that she flops onto her side, just out of reach. She demands that I come to her, and it’s often at the most inconvenient time imaginable – like when I’m sitting on the toilet. If I refuse her reluctant advances, she saunters away (giving me the high-tailed, one-eyed salute) and looks for the perfect rug to barf on.
Copyright 2024 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.