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FlawlessImperfection
- Your cat is not broken, since "broken" implies that at one time, the cat was perfect. This is just another example of poor quality control at the cat factory. I have a Snowshoe
Thanks, it’s a good thing those monsters are so cute!LOL. I'm pretty sure she'll figure out how to "be a cat again" soon.
She's very cute, BTW.As is your dog.
The dog is a monster. He is perfectly well behaved and the best dog I’ve ever had- but STILL, he rules the house lol! The dynamic between these two is hilarious, and they are ALWAYS sneaking together, they don’t want us to see them play? So weird!!
Oh my goodness I could learn a thing or two about how she dangles him from a string! Sheesh I could make life a whole lot easier if I lost my scruples and shame, she doesn’t seem to miss hers!
“How did it come to this?”
Oh my goodness I humbly bow before the perfection of your written truth dear Wordsmith- the only perfection to be had in this, the greatest of atrocities, placed upon those of us gullible enough to enter into that gentle, (so gentle and delicate!) fluffy, (oh so soft and cute!) loving (oh the purrs she loves me!) FACADE of a nine lives of eternal servitude contract that usurped our existence. I shall weep with you, and your worn out hinges, electrical outlets and frayed nerves, while I try to hide under the blankets from my own shame. Demented elves. I blame Santa for overworking and inbreeding his darn fantasy midgets, and those genetic mutants who are good for nothing but booze, ice vodka and smoking rain deer fodder, who ended up getting scooped up as the sole workforce for these cat factories. Seriously, how did he not see this coming if he knows what color bike little Timmy wants for Christmas? “Oh fine, those parents want to keep popping out kids and more work for me I’ll show them. I’ll just let a few of my rejects go start their own assembly line. They’ll show those breeders the meaning of an overwhelming overpopulation of unwanted, undersized tyrants! It’s a conspiracy!!!!.
<pause while readers sigh and make commiserative sounds>
who's caused me to install latches on every door, and to basically "baby-proof" the entire place. Boxes? Good Lord no. I'd often find her curled up asleep in a cabinet, having usurped the place of the cookware which had been summarily pushed onto the floor prior to Cat-Proofing Level 99, but boxes are simply too mundane. In short, she was produced by the Cat Factory without the Box Gene.
With so much having been hidden away, she's now showing her imagination and innovative abilities. Sink Strainer Shuffleboard can break out at any time, but is usually scheduled for the wee hours. She also has Sir Edmund Hillary Syndrome - the desire and the ability to scale any surface to the pinnacle regardless of height or the sheerness of vertical surface, but without the forethought of being able to manage getting down without help, which leads to your humble author dazedly stumbling downstairs in the middle of the night, drawn by what - in a cat-free environment - could only be the sound of evil mythical warriors tormenting a dozen babies, to find her perched atop a cabinet or a bookcase, screeching in her Siamesest voice - and of course, retrieving her brings every other cat running, hoping for treats or a midnight snack.
I seldom cook on the stove top these days, which can necessitate learning how to make a grilled cheese sandwich on a charcoal grill in sub-zero temperatures (the trick, of course, is in shielding the top of the sandwich with your body from blowing, drifting snow without getting so close that your clothing actually catches fire).
Light switches? These are simply toys to a captive Snowshoe. My neighbours have remarked that it's like living next door to the Amityville Horror House, with lights flickering on and off at odd hours through the night, and the eerie, far-off, blood-curdling Siamese screams.
No, our cats are not "broken" in the way that you intended the definition - they're defective right from the factory. Somewhere in the far east, there's a factory running three shifts, churning out cats as fast as they can - tens of thousands of workers, toiling to keep up with the worldwide demand for cats - and at the end of the assembly line, there's a single inspector, headphones clamped tightly over his ears, blaring the strains of some band you've never heard of, like Mungo Joogie And The All-Night Smoot, eating Doritos non-stop, and staring intently at his SmartPhone, texting his BFF - absolutely oblivious to the cats which sail past him on the conveyor belt, and the ghastly, dreadfully shoddy quality of their workmanship.
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