Today’s Risky guest
Janet is so incredibly lazy that she asked me to recycle a post I wrote a year or so ago. She is also refusing to feed me even though she’s up at 5 am and doesn’t seem to have anything else to do. She’s been very picky recently about hair balls, even though a cat’s gotta do what a cat’s gotta do, and if sometimes it happens on the bed, well, you can’t argue with nature. She also bought me a cat tower recently. I’ve no idea what she expects me to do with it.
So, the Regency. Not a good time for cats. No reproductive rights, persecuted for our beautiful coats and tuneful intestines. Portrayed, as you can see, as grotesque gluttons or sneaky criminals:
I’m HELPING the fish. What do you think I’m doing?
Well fed French cat, probably fattened up to make some sort of pate.
Guess what I just did down here.
Excuse me, I must go eat.
Where was I? Oh yes, the Regency. A time of persecution and–
OMG what is that on the ceiling?
Never mind. Hey, I bet you can’t get your leg up by your ear and do this.
Dream on, dog.
Any other cats out there who wish to comment?
My cat says to tell you:
Very pretty cat, invited to lunch. Me like to share food with other kitties.
I don’t share food with anyone. Invite me to lunch only with the understanding that I will eat it all.
Miss Rebecca Marie is sincerely glad she was not a cat during the Regency. She prefers she be the only one to wear her coat and she enjoys her kibble entirely too well to give up even an inch of her intestines. She does, however, enjoy music and comes from anywhere in the house when she hears her Mama sing. Had she lived in the Regency she would have been highly prized for her skills as a mouser. All creatures great and small, save for the dogs Mama insists on keeping, are terminated with extreme prejudice for daring to invade Miss Rebecca Marie’s domain.