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?