Saturday, February 16, 2013

Pussy Wars up in the Hood

There are three cats living at the 868. Two on Leslie's side and one on our side. Leslie's in Texas so I'm cleaning up after all three of em.

And though this statement may start a civil war, I'm gonna say it. Let me remind you that Leslie's in Texas. This means she can't slap me.

Today.

Leslie's cat sucks. I won't say which one but it's not Zoe.

Her cat is a neurotic tongue-trichotillomaniac who is allergic to herself and vomits like it's an exorcism.

Daily.

Every time I open Leslie's door to check on them I wince, preparing for the worst. Yesterday it looked like a crime scene. The cat had puked up and down the couch and wall, managing to nail at least four surfaces with her slimy half-digested kibbles.

But she's beautiful, and I forgive her every time, even though she truly is tragic. And gross. I'm guessing it's not dissimilar to how those around Lindsay Lohan feel.

Gabby isn't going to win any beauty contests, let's face it, but she never pukes. She's shaped like a small sea lion because she eats like such a slug, but she's low maintenance. I don't come home to splatters of vomit on the wall, couch, blanket and rug. Her only real downfall is her volume when it nears feeding time. She needs a mute button.

I'll trade a few minutes of tortured wailing, though, for the time spent gagging back my own bile cleaning up after a bulimic cat (who, like all the pretty little bitches who get away with this behavior, doesn't need to lose weight anyhow).

So let's all raise a glass to chubby nerds with hearts of gold like Gabby the cat. I'll take her any day over the hot mess next door.

But when Leslie comes home from Texas, I'll tell her Mark wrote this post. Just in case she still feels like coming to the defense of her bulimic baby with a bitch-slap.

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