15 years ago, Heather came home with a flea-infested “feral” monster of a kitten. He got a prompt bath to remove the farm pesticide he’d been covered with (which was killing him more than the fleas.. as always, soap and water are the best solution) and curled up on Heather’s chest. After he was warm and dry, we locked him up for the evening in a quiet room of the house and let him get on with getting on. This also let the other cats come to terms with the heap of new bullshit we’d introduced to their lives.
The next morning, all was well, and we went off to work. I got home first, and when I peeked into the room, I saw what appeared to be a dead kitten curled up on the bed. As I approached, he came quite back to life and did this:
This cute, bunny-footed little fuzz monster used all his charms and wound up winning the feline lottery by getting the best cat-mom on the planet. He immediately bonded to the then-three-year-old Tai, who never forgave us.
15 years later, he doesn’t have fleas and he’s not really feral, but he’s still a monster and will demand to speak to the manager and withhold your tip if you’re more than 10 seconds late with his supper, just like the little boomer asshole of a cat he is.
PS: Have a bonus pic.