Fifty Third

I will never again let those little stings go by unremarked.  I will recognize them the instant they slither out of your mouth and I will pounce on them and bite their heads off and turn them back around.

You are clever enough that I will have to be subtle, perhaps I will pause, as if considering your words, looking puzzled and ask “Are you concerned about the contents of my purse?”  

Or just “ that’s an interesting thing to ask”.  

Oh, oh, I know. I will look at you, take a slow breath and say “You seem to have strong feelings about this.” 

That’s a really subtle way of calling you an ass. 

Perfect!

Fifty Second

This is the eulogy that my cat wrote for me (at least the one i'm sure he would write if he could):

She was the best.  

She was warm and was the only person who had a lap big enough to contain all of my 18 glorious pounds. 

She let me sit beneath her bent legs under the covers.  This was such a great place, until she farted.  Ugh.  

But still I stayed, warm and dark and covered.

She didn’t feed me enough though.  I would ask very plainly, sitting, and then even lying down, next to my sparkling empty dish.  I don’t think she was stupid, but I really can’t understand why she couldn’t comprehend my request.  Any other whim I had was quickly satisfied.  

If I looked cute and big-eyed next to the dining room table, most often I would get a bite of something wonderful.  I never understood what happened next, when she would say to the room, “I don’t know WHY he begs.” There would be laughter.  She was happy. I liked that.

I followed her around the house so that I could sit on her.  I can hear a lap being made two rooms away from a dead sleep. 

I liked that she rarely passed by my sleeping spot without a kind comment and a stroke for me.  Who doesn’t like hearing about how handsome I am several times a day?

She rarely brought unsavory people to our house, and when she did, I would growl and smack them on the nose until they stopped trying to sniff my behind.

Is it dinner time now?