That's Just Not the Way I Roll....

I think my cat wants to have a homosexual relationship with me.

I blame myself, partly. I saw the signs, but did nothing. I expected this would just go away, but it hasn't. It's gotten worse and I'm afraid he's just going to snap one day and kill us all in some weird bi-species love-triangle murder-suicide.

(**note: I have now used up my quota of hyphens. The remainder of this post will be hyphen-free).


I mean, look at that picture: does that pose say "Come on and see me sometime, sailor..." to you or what?

Now look, I'm not opposed to alternative lifestyles. Matter of fact, I'm very supportive of gay marriage -- after all, why should just heteros suffer the horrors of marriage? But it's just not for me. Well, unless I go to prison or get shipwrecked with an NFL football team or something. Or join the British navy. Then I'll reassess. But for now, no. Not my bag.

And I haven't had a cross species relationship, well, in ages. And really, I was a little drunk, and I really needed the money.

But I kid, I'm a kidder.

I didn't need the money...

Anyway.

Yes, where were we? Oh yes, the cat. Every morning he wakes me up at the crack of dawn. I used to think it was because some idiot around here (well, that's me) had forgotten to feed him the night before and he was hungry. But I've become very good about feeding him and he just comes in and wakes me up anyway.

So I'll go downstairs and try to use the extra hour or so productively, hopping on the computer and reading blogs doing extra things for work.

And he'll come over and pester me to pay attention to him. Okay, nothing too out of the ordinary yet. I mean, he's a little dog-like, but from what we understand, his breed (Maine Coon) are attention hogs.

He'll sit there and look at me and rub his head on my leg (well, actually it's a little more like a head-butt) (damn. There's another hyphen. That's going to cost me...)

He rubs his head on me, and I am well trained to go to the bathroom and turn on the water so he can have a drink.

Well, this morning I was feeling particularly chipper and thought I'd scratch his back a little. Now this is what this ginormous fat cat looks like drinking from the sink:


Note the tail is sticking up.

So, I'm scratching his back, looking out the bathroom window at the backyard (again Mother-frickin-nature dumps a foot of rain on us and freezes it overnight. That's going to be a party driving in, let me tell you..). After a minute or so of this I look down and note his tail is curled up around my arm, so I'm getting a full bore-view of cat ass. Delightful.

Then I notice the cat ass is... is.... oh my, this is too horrible to write, but I will for you, faithful reader: the cat ass is pulsating. It's rhythmically... pulsating... is the only word for it. And he's purring... the most gravelly, lustful, needful purring I've ever heard from him.

And then he stops drinking and turns his head to look at me.

And, I swear... He winked.

I just feel so dirty...

For Sale: Cheap, One Really Fat Cat Blogger

G-r-o-a-n....

So it's 5am the morning after a slight over-indulgence with clear, potato-based liquor.... Blaugh.

Now, why the heck would I get up at 5am this morning you ask? Let me introduce you to Rosey, also known by his nom du blog, Rastacat:



So this morning he got up on my nightstand, found the button for the radio, and stood on it waking me up. Yesterday he started meowing pathetically at about 3am. I put him in the bathroom and shut him in, only to be woken up again a half-hour later by the sound of him basically eating his way through the door. So into the garage he went(with the steel-core security door, let's see you chew through that!).

I can hear you now; just get rid of the cat. If only it were that easy. See the whole family is very attached to him. As a matter of fact, if push came to shove, I think they'd choose him over me. Afterall, it only seems to be me that he gets up at oh-dark-30 or whenever he has his feline-version raves. (I'm guessing this is to do with my natural male saber-tooth tiger fighting gene...)

So I think the solution is clear. One of you needs to adopt me. Here are my qualifications: I am a middle-aged (listen, getting to 70 with this body is achievement enough, so technically I'm middle aged at 35), slightly corpulent and quite hairy male, with short (disappearing) hair and affinities for Star Trek, Jethro Tull, 1980's nostalgia, and the Madden football games. No known food allergies.

I can do laundry and light housecleaning, and if you're a person of the female persuasion, well, let's just say.... No, no, let's not say anything... Wifeypooh has an internet connection at work now, you can never be too careful...

All offers will be kept confidential, until appropriate husband neutralizing (I'm talkin' to you, Penny) actions can be taken...