I really don’t understand these simians. You cuddle up with them, undergo the many pettings and scritches that are your just due, you settle in for a nice and quiet session of purrfect bliss… The Mistress’ nimble small appendages start gently massaging your neck… and then she calls over Grumpy Man and he starts plucking at your fur !!!
Now, I know all about grooming. I can confidently state that I’m kind of an expert in this department. After all, I’m 3 years already. Given the fact that it’s not as if I am under-endowed in the fur-department – me being a proud specimen of the Maine Coon persuasion and all – and despite a few burn spots that are healing nicely thankyouohsoverymuchfornotasking, I do cut a dashing figure if I may say so. My raspy tongue has been put to good use ever since Mama Katischka taught me how to do so, even if I hadn’t been that good a student in my younger days so The Mistress had to maim my beautiful bushy-tail and luscious belly-fur by cutting out matted tufts, but I do know how to deal with loose hair and frankly, when you got strange squiggly lumps that won’t budge, well, that’s exactly what claws were invented for. But simians have their uses.
It’s just that their appendages are blunt and lack the finesse and precision of a well-honed claw-tip. So, picture the scene: there’s poor little me, having a few (A few ??? He had 15 of ’em !!! /The Mistress) little lumps around my neck and throat -did I mention that that horrible chafing collar has maimed my glorious mane ?- and she just freaked out and made Grumpy Man hurt me. Whatever he plucked from my poor hurting neck -along with most of my pelt for sure- was thrown into the almost always empty huge water bowl and then they dumped lots of water on it. “Tick-Magnet” they call me now. Harumpf ! Besides, I can’t count. I’m a cat, I don’t need to.
And hence The Mistress has developed this unwanted and uncalled-for new habit of picking up my august being, dumping me on a handy surface high enough so she wouldn’t need to bend over, and searching me all over. I mean, the humiliation ! Not a single private spot is sacred ! She’s crazy ! And when she does find something, despite my furious protests and vigourous wiggling, she calls over her lumbering henchman and makes him pluck at me again. I tell you, it’s that they provide me with edible grub and adequate scritches or this House of Chaos would have seen the last of my majestic backside long ago. But… I would miss the jumpy toy. And the catnip banana. And the Red Dot. And the radiator which inlet/outlet is so conveniently spaced just so, right above the floor, that an enterprising and warmth-loving kitty just needs to wrap himself around it and… oh, well, you get the drift.
But now I have had an epif… epipfy… revelation.
The last time The Mistress picked me up and dumped me on the small fridge I accidently let go of some air. Little did I know that simians, usually enormously underdeveloped in the olifactory department, are actually quite sensitive to one specific type of smell. The type that -aha !- comes out of your backside. I do admit that this time it did have a rather unique bouquet: maybe a bit heavy on the sulfur, but nicely complex and satisfyingly dense molecule-wise. In any case The Mistress’ reaction was priceless, I still treasure it in the deep folds of my heart, just makes me warm and tingly all over and such whenever I think of it: she immediately let go of me so I jumped away and from a safe distance comfortabely observed at leisure her gagging and sputtering and startled exclamations. What a great secret weapon a well-placed fart makes.
Chateau Beau of Purrpuss, Malodourous Magnificence
Picture below: my selfie. You like ?
I suppose I should mention my buddies over at The Friday Ark. They’re all right. Go say hello for me.