The only thing that will save me now is if I barricade myself in my office and ignore the feline-in-heat sounds of “SOMEONE! ANYONE! PLEASE HUMP ME BARNYARD STYLE!!!”
It’s my sister’s little cat that is not fixed. My much older male cat has been fixed for years. All he can do now is hit it and then quit it – if you get my meaning. And he is so old that he can only do it like once or twice a day before he just climbs off her and walks away for a nap. Or hides under the bed. Or in my lap. He’s so desperate to get away from her.
I know he is successful at his chosen hiding place when she walks around the house meowing mournfully.
How like life.
My poor cat. She flaunts herself like the hussy she is. He politely declines and asks her to give him some space from her hormone crazed emotional ups and downs. She swats him in the face, purrs, then rolls over and flicks her tail in his face. He declines again. She gets angry. He finally gives her one last, “Sorry, toots, my nether bits aren’t working for you today.”
She comes back with:
And she would. It’s kind of awesome.
So for today, I am locking myself in my office with my poor abused cat and writing another chapter in my novel. Maybe doing so more editing. Lets hope she doesn’t realize he is in here reading the latest from Sylvia Day, hiding under the covers on top of my chaise lounge. If she were to find out….
Shhhh…she might hear us.