Of Wives and Cats
Oh dear. What a pity. How sad. It is with great regret (not!) that I report to the IsAC community the sad demise of our moggie Gerald (or Fatfuck, as I referred to the twat when not within earshot of the wife).
For the life of me, I can’t see what attractions cats hold for we humans. Imagine a scruffy tabby lump with a chewed ear and a dodgy looking boss eye. For the last fifteen years, this cunt has loafed about the house as though he owned it, spending 90% of his time snoring, scratching, shitting in my flowerbeds or sniffing his pencil sharpener-like ring piece. (Sure you’re not talking about Fat Reg or some Dinghy Rider? – DA)
The rest of the time’s been spent eating me out of house and home while regarding me with profound contempt, not to mention running up a huge slate at the vet’s of late.
As far as I’m concerned it’s a case of fucking good riddance. Unfortunately, and inexplicably, the wife thinks that the sun shone out of his tea towel holder, and has been in pieces for the last three days.
All I hear is ‘look, there’s his little blanket’, or ‘he’d be *sob* having his tea now’. As an act of self-comfort and consolation, her thoughts have already turned to lining up the lardarse’s replacement, much to my extreme chagrin. ‘We could get another little tabby’, she pines. ‘What could we call him, do you think?’.
‘For fuck’s sake’, says I. ‘the fat bugger’s not cold in the skip yet, and you want to get another one in. Let’s get a goldfish in a bowl while we’re at it, so it’ll have something to watch and entertain itself with’.
Of course by now, regulars on here will know that I’m a hopeless case where my little minx is concerned; she can quite effortlessly wrap me around her little finger. ‘You… you heartless brute’, she whimpers, her luscious lower lip quivering as she sends a fat tear rolling down her cheek.
Basically it’s a hopeless cause. I’m licked before I start; I know it, she knows it. ‘Oh go on then’, I hear myself saying, ‘of course we can get a kitten’, and my reward is to see her face light up. ‘You’re nothing but a big softie really’ says she, and hugs me tightly.
So now she’s happily spending her time looking for a successor to the late (and as far as I’m concerned) unlamented Gerald.
Women. Couldn’t live without my little minx.
Pity I couldn’t say the same about cats.
Nominated by: Ron Knee