Scat, cat!

Up at 2 A.M., woken by the need for a little mid-night micturition, teeth of a Norwegian Forest cat chomping on my feet (Georgia, it tickles!), I thought it the natural time for a blog update--though I warn you: I'm groggy and hopped up on meds, so my judgement may be a tad tottery, and it is indeed exceptionally likely everything I write will make not a modicum of sense.

Yes, this is how I write when I've just been ripped from slumber by the need to pee. Can't you just smell it? The petulance?

Anyway, I think Georgia has a urine fetish; I'm concerned about it. I take that back: it's all streams of water she craves, not simply my sweet, yellow nectar. But having a cat with a stream fetish makes urination a trifle adventurous. Imagine the stream, gloriously flowing from tip to toilet. Maybe you don't want to imagine the tip part. But you get the idea. Hey, it was alliteration, I had to go for it. You imagining? Good. Now allow a racing cat, tearing up a stairway, nearly crashing against the linen closet in her cartoonish celerity to simultaneously turn ninety degrees and bolt for the bathroom, to enter the mental picture.

Her feet summon dust puffs of alacrity, roadrunner style, as she veers spang for the holy grail.

She halts before the mighty stream, paws on porcelain, simply gazing with curiosity, or awe, or perhaps curiosity and awe at the same time, as the urinefall splatters on water with its mellifluous siren's plop.

What is this? she ponders, testing my typically deft aiming ability by creeping her nose farther out over the bowl, becoming more target than kitty with each passing moment.

She leaps lithe as a ballerina onto the rim, avoiding the object of her curiosity. How? I don't know. Consider it one life consumed. She stands straddling the bowl momentarily before deciding to tightrope toe along the other side of the toilet.

There, she poises to strike. Ears back, teeth bared, she sallies forth her paw, slapping the stream, at first as if testing its temperature. Then, finding it delightfully tepid, she continues her assault as I struggle to avoid her onslaught without puddling piss on the tile floor. I do the herky-jerky, swaying to and fro, trying to assuage my manhood*, which, long--very long, snakelike, and anaconda thick--appears possessed as it thrashes back and forth. Like an unmanned firehose on full blast, it cannot be controlled.

The cat wins this battle. But the war isn't over yet! Next time I will be more prepared. I'm devising an ambush!

I will have the last meow in this matter!

ANYway, I suppose I should get some shuteye. In short, I woke up to pee and the cat was there. I probably could have just written that instead. Oh yeah, she likes to bat at the water when I take baths, too, but she seems to lose interest when I shove her into the tub.

Cats are outstanding.

Good night, everyone! And good night...holes.

Love,
Brett

*No, that doesn't mean I was masturbating