Shameless Admission

I love my cat.

I know, I know, what next…Ylang Ylang treated shower poof? I know it’s not particularly manly to admit such a thing, but at the moment it’s undeniably true. I love my wittle-furry-wurry-sugar-schnookums. Deal with it, or go choke yourself.

Of course there is a part of me that is just more than a wee bit concerned that by the age of 32, the most meaningful relationship I’ve been able to establish in my life beyond my own family parameters, is a 4 year old neutered male cat named after a Japanese soup. Not exactly something you’d like to brag about with your buddies down at the neighborhood boozer on the weekends. As my profile suggests, had I been able to predict the future a decade ago I would easily have had more puncture wounds in my forehead then I do now.

But what can I say? I love the furry fucker.

For me it’s impossible to be at home and not automatically hear that soft familiar pitter-patter of feline paws behind me as I go from room to room. You just can’t live in close proximity with that kind of constant companionship without eventually getting accustomed to it, and even needing it. Shit, it’s like working under a surveillance camera knowing every move you make and every action you perform is being watched, scrutinized, and evaluated. I can’t even take a piss now when I’m not at home unless I close my eyes and picture my cat behind me. Explain THAT to the guys down at the ‘Grope n’ Tickle’!

Don’t worry though. This open shameful admission was only a fleeting one and I’m not about to start listening to Annie Lennox albums or join Oprah’s Book Club or anything ridiculous like that. I’m the same course, manly guy who grunts, groans, and lights his farts (although I might not be picturing in my minds eye at that exact moment what you might have otherwise normally been picturing) like every other member of the respectable Swinging Dick Brigade.

I am now going back to my light beer and ‘Smokey & the Bandit’ movie marathon. There is nothing more to read here….