I fee like I should warn anyone who intends to spend any amount of time at our place (*ahem* those of you coming over for Mushroom Day!): we have a cat.
His name is Monster.
And he is a monster.
When he first came home with us, he was Cake (as in “life with Cake is a piece of cake!”). We waited to name him until we got to know him a bit, and about two days later he was…
Monster is rotten. In fact, he’s probably the most rotten critter you have ever encountered in your life. Not only does he scratch the carpet right next to his cardboard cat scratcher, he also chews on the blinds, chews on loaves of bread if we leave them out, chews on any cardboard he finds, chews on books, chews on furniture, and chews on me. Albeit not hard enough to break skin. Just hard enough to hurt.
Monster will beg for a piece of chicken, then leave it to get cold and slimy in the middle of the hallway–where you will later step on it in the dark on the way to the bathroom. He also spits up hairballs in the middle of the hallway with the same results. He has the stinkiest, most odiferous poops you’ve ever smelled.
He knocks books off the book shelf so he can sit behind them and make creepy, skittering, poltergeist sounds after you’ve forgotten he’s back there.
Monster likes to lie on his back on the floor and blink invitingly so that passersby will be tempted to rub his belly…
…at which point he clamps shut with all five pointy ends of his body and mauls the innocent would-be cat lover with all of his claws and teeth.
Hey! You in the scrubs! Gimme some treats!
What I really wanted was a dog. Maybe a fat, mellow, lazy, slobbery, affectionate beast of a bassett hound. What I got was this:
Anyways, that’s Monster in a nutshell. Consider yourselves duly warned.