Home Is Where The Cat Pukes

We’re back. A day early, to beat the storm. Southwest Airlines waived the fees, too, which would have been $200 apiece. Amazing, in this day and age. I expected fees to double.

Anyway, we got done what we needed to. The bodies are buried, the fingerprints wiped, the alibis established. Me, I’m entirely innocent, as always. I wasn’t even there, and even if I was, I’m not the one who pulled the trigger.

Our cat Marra, who will be 21 next month, remains alive and incontinent. Resolved: We’re not going anywhere until she finally gives it up. It’s unnerving enough going away to to work each day, not knowing if upon our return we’ll discover she’s been turned into a dog toy (“It died, Mommy, and it smelled of shit, so I chewed on her. Okay?”). She spent the week pissing in my shower and shitting in Guido’s, which actually kept the litter pans a little cleaner than usual. The other inside feline ate plants and barfed everywhere.

I love coming home.  I get to wear my thigh-high wading boots.  And nothing else.  Wanna see photos?

For those of you who have been sending me know-it-all emails (Kent Standit, Rollo Nickels, Lazlo Toth) about where we were and what we were doing, let me assure you a day early that No, I am not anybody’s vice presidential nominee and neither is Guido.

Back to the real world. BOHICA.

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4 Responses to Home Is Where The Cat Pukes

  1. Ruh Roh says:

    Oh, were you away?

  2. Ms Calabaza says:

    well . . . where are the photos?

  3. FerfeLaBat says:

    Glad you are back. Do NOT show those photos.

  4. Rollo Nickels says:

    I call BULLSHIT!! You weren’t anywhere at all, just hiding out in your living room. faking it, too lazy to blog. . Maybe I got pictures of my own, waddya think of that? Bullshit! BULLSHIT!!

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