A few weeks ago, our 4-year-old cat, Alex, died suddenly. In front of me. While I was working. He didn’t leave a note. Alex was kind of inconvenient like that. Let’s just blame Obama and creeping socialism.
So, along comes a office mate of my wife’s, with pix of 3 barn kittens. “Dammit, I’m the man of the house and this is my castle and I’ve enjoyed not sweeping up litter or cat hair or getting bitten…Holy crap, those kitties are cute!” Sold. Well, I was sold on the idea of a new cat. Singular. Lo and behold, these fuzzy balls of kryptonite could sell single-payer option healthcare and a big box of radical Communism to Glenn Beck while he was officiating a same-sex wedding. We returned home, me driving with my tail between my legs, with 2 kittens.
Is this a desperate, shameless attempt to drive traffic to my phlog? Perhaps. Hey, times is tough, as we say around the house.
Allow me to introduce Miss Mittens: The Avenger (top), named by my son (with a little help from me), and Sueño (Spanish for “sleepy”), christened by me after excessive hand-wringing. He’s narcoleptic. Trust me, it fits.
I gave them a flea bath. Partly because they had fleas, mostly because I wanted to make sure they were genuine cats.
by Mark
5 comments