July 22, 2012
Sesame and I had a fight today. He thinks his job as a glorified dust-bunny is to follow me from room to room every moment that I am conscious and meow at me.
I disagree.
He thinks he should eat 35 times a day.
This is his friendly face. Can you feel the love?
I disagree.
He thinks Mitt Romney has a right to keep his tax information private and confidential.
We came to blows.
(Don’t get excited. I put him in the basement and slammed the door super hard. So I guess technically the door and I came to blows.)
We made up like we always do, this time when I offered him the last few sips of my breakfast smoothie. Anyway, I can vote and he can’t. Eat that, Skeletor.
I know what you’re thinking. That’s one handsome cat. Well, nothing 20 years of pampering, thousands of dollars worth of meds, organic food, lambswool beds, and an apparent pact with the devil won’t get you.
You’ll notice that although we’ve been fighting, he insists on sitting on my lap. This is more about control than anything else. Now I can’t get up without setting the dreaded Sesame-defense-siren off again. Also, if he can get me to look deeply into his eyes, I’m either going to start clucking like a chicken or voting republican.
Anyway, I was more than happy to skip off to work and leave the Grim Reaper with Jim tonight. Pretty sad when you have to go to a 911 center for some peace and quiet.
May 2012
The first version of this was “Sesame gets a whole page, bitches,” but again, since my mom will likely make up a third to half my regular readership, I elected to scale back the sass.
Anyway, Sesame demands his own page. Someday, when you’re a 20-year-old cat who thinks with a British accent and defies the laws of science and logic just by continuing to draw breath every day, then you can have your own page too.
- Yes, he eats on the counter. Judge not.
You also get your very own collection of dachshund-sized sweaters and outerwear, because mommy shaved you two years ago and nothing grew back.
