My day begins with this thing jammed into my neck. It also comes and gets me 12 hours later. My human calls me a Sugar Kitty because I have something called diabetes.
How did that happen? I am a big and healthy male cat. I also have no interest in the female cat. (For a few days in my youth, the thought of searching out girl kitties drove me mad and I went searching for the ladies. When I showed up home two days later, my humans took me to a cat doctor—the same one who poked me with needles as a kitten. I took a nice nap at the doctor’s office. When I got home, I lost all curiosity about girl cats. My preference became a good hunt or a raucous fight.)
I still like to hunt and fight. Just one problem, my human said, “Mouser, you are going into retirement, buddy.”
WTH?? Retirement? Just because I get two shots a day? Wrong. So very, very wrong.
I gave my human the stink eye. She shook her finger at me and said, “Mouser, if you didn’t like to play hide and seek when you are outside, and if the coyotes and mountain lions weren’t on the prowl for older kitties, and if you didn’t have to have these shots everyday, I wouldn’t make you retire. But…your bad kitty ways, and the fact that you are not a kitten anymore, says, you are retired!”
So, I sit on the upper deck, in the sun, and wish a pox on that cat across the street. I could so whoop his skinny tail.
Back to my original question, how did I become a sugar kitty? —I’ll share that tail next time.
BTW, you can lick my Facebook page, Mouser.
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