Honest, there are 3 cats in this photo. Quint just looks really, really small. Okay, maybe 2 cats and a cat foot would be more accurate. And a cat’s blanket fort. And a typically glaring tuxie cat. And surprisingly nearby, a napping Viola Niblet. Oh, yes, there’s a lot going on in this photo, and we probably didn’t need to say a word.
Wow! I was laying here, nearly sound asleep, when it occurred to me I’m the Bestest cat ever, and yet, no one’s told me that for the longest time. Boy, did that thought ever wake me up! I can’t even remember the last time Dad told me I was the bestest cat. Mom says I “might” be the bestest Tuxie but isn’t there a contract somewhere that states all Mom’s have to proclaim such things? I think there is therefore, there is, and further therefore, Mom doesn’t count.
Ha! *snort* You think you’re the bestest cat because someone said you were? I’m told that every week and there’s no contract that says Moms or Dads have to say it. It simply is a fact. What you are is the bestest cat who gets into trouble more than any cat should, that’s what you’re the bestest at. Trouble.
Well, I was just getting around to stating I’m the Bestest cat ever . . . who gets into trouble before someone interrupted me. And maybe the reason I haven’t heard that confirmed from Dad is *gulp* maybe I haven’t been living up to my usual trouble standards lately? Is that possible? If I didn’t know better, I’d think maybe that means . . . I’m not a young scrappy, trouble-determined cat anymore? Now, that’s worth thinking about.
Editor’s note: Oh, don’t worry. Tessa continues to find trouble often. Just the other day, she snagged chicken pieces out of a container that someone named Dad left temporarily unguarded on the kitchen counter – also where Tessa knows she’s not supposed to be.
This computer chair, the only one in our house, has seen so many kitties over the years. It’s ripped and torn and probably has a bit of a, er, fragrance to it with tuffs of fur sticking out here and there. It ought to be recycled. Years ago, Mom had a wooden banker’s style chair that, as her preferred style, had zero padding. Dad very much disliked that chair and it was only after Tessa barfed on it a dozen times too many to clean and repair, did Mom give it up.
From time to time, Mom finds herself wistfully perusing Wayfair looking at banker’s style chairs, but only when sitting on a cold, metal folding chair because someone has taken over the worn padded computer chair. Viola, have you become the latest Colehaus cat to love that chair? This is the chair used when creating blog posts. So, Viola, since you’ve taken over the chair, write up some good posts!
No banker’s chair will be purchased anytime soon. We don’t have the heart to displace Viola. And who wants to clean up Tessa wooden chair barf anyway?
