Look at you, with your poofy fur tempting my hand, your adorable round eyes judging me. You’ve been sleeping the whole damn day I’ve been working my ass off. Your life is too damn good.
Clearly, you’re some saint reincarnated, right? No one else would have lucked into such a blissful existence, having your head scratched, belly filled, and poop neatly collected by foolish little me.
You extend your little paw toward me, wanting a handshake, as though you’re proposing a deal in which you have my undying affection in return for occasionally letting me pet your belly. I see the mischief flash in your eyes too late as you take my gullibly outstretched finger as an open invitation to turn your “handshake” into a vicious clawed attack.
And yet you have the nerve to meow at me and demand constant satisfaction, using your feline wiles to dissolve the rest of the world into a whimpering mess, undone by your cuteness. Shameful!
Why can’t I be that charismatic. Damn.
Not only that, you don’t have to stumble over your words, fumble with your clothes, or bumble through life like us human idiots. You get to just perch on the nice furniture and dig your claws in for a nice strrreeeetchhh and we hairless freaks just become puddles of oohs and ahhs. Dang, why can’t I be that suave?
