Tootsie, Fuck Off!

For the past two weeks I've been playing a maddeningly (what a ridiculous word) cyclical game with my fantastically obese cat, Tootsie. It was only just now that I actually realized it was a game.

I would be sitting at the desk, writing a bunch of wild words in some order that I can only hope will be digestible enough for the masses. A standard weeknight as of late. Then Tootsie will start to howl at me from my feet. I ignore her like the small child she is, but after about seven to nine howls into it, I just start cussing out venomous obscenities between my feet without taking my eyes of my work. But the words "Tootsie, Fuck Off!" bounce off that pink little cow nose of hers. Only sticks and stones for Tootsie.

She puts her front paws on the edge of my chair and rests her head inside my crotch, nothing sexual, just a "hey, what'cha doin' up there?" This begins to really distract me. I have lots of work to do, that no one is paying me for. So I reach for the laser pointer.

That little red dot zips around the room faster than any mother fucking fly Tootsie has ever seen. Zip, Zam, Zoom! My little cow-cat gallops off, udder swinging to and fro, in chase of something that can never be caught. That fact alone is proof that they don't have a conscious, for it would blow their tiny little minds.

I'm laughing at how dumb I can fool my cats into behaving. Using their natural instincts for my amusement and leaving them no satisfaction of the kill. Would PETA support this? Wait, I eat meat, never mind. The real problem is I'm just not getting any work done.

So back to writing gibberish. Then, sure enough, five minutes later ... there's a pussy in my crotch again!