Smoke the Cat

This is not me. Darn Photoshop. I have my own page. See Smoke the Cat.

Let me say I think this is a bad idea. It’s not mine. Blame it on CJ or Carolyn Barbre or Backcountry Writer, whatever she is calling herself. She’s the one who named me Smoke, not terribly original but then we don’t get to choose our own names, do we?
She say’s it’s because of my long gray fur and she sometimes calls me Smokey. But don’t you even think about it. I hate cute. Cats are not cute. We are regal.

CJ listened to an audio book, The Art of Racing in the Rain, narrated by a dog named Enzo. I hate dogs. She couldn’t stop talking about the wonderful dog story, yuck. So, since she’s been blogging, but found it impossible to personally to blog every day, she’s suggested I fill in, maybe once or twice a week, like say Tuesdays and Thursdays. I’m sure I can do at least as well as some slobbering dog.

I’m thirteen, pretty old in cat years and something of an antiquity for feral cats, which is what I am and will always be. Leopards don’t change their spots and feral cats don’t go all mushy for humans. I won’t have no truck with nobody but CJ. When she has guests, I’m gone, outta there, whosh! I have a secret way to get under the house and I won’t come out until the coast is clear.

But sleeping about twenty hours a day is not good for this ol’ girl’s figure. The truth is, I’ve had some interesting things happen in my life too. So as long as nobody comes knocking, I don’t mind sharing.

Think I’ll call it “Smoke the Cat” and maybe with a subtitle of “A memoir of life on the wild side.”

What do you think?

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