Wednesday, December 10, 2014
It's a dog's and cat's life apparently... Yeah right, they've got it better than I do.
I pulled the spread back this morning as I rose from my slumber to see this at my feet...
That's Bootsy B and Loco. Bootsy B is a Maine Coon, aka Man Coon. Dudes, if you're going to have a feline companion, that's the breed I recommend, as they are famously known for their superior harbinger of death like mousing skills. No shit, nothing moves in The Backyard without his stamp on the permission slip. That size there don't get no bigger. Well maybe, but he's up there in the size category for a domesticated cat. He's THE MAN. His philosophy is simple : If you vermin knock on death's door long enough, I will answer it.
I still get sacrificial offerings to the Altar of Stackz from him in mornings, bodies limp and still warm, laid upon my shower mat that I step out on. And, he just sits there and looks at me as if I'm supposed to take part in his kill. I pretend to sometimes. It's the little things, you know? He's rewarded for his perimeter security skills with fresh heavy cream several times a week. I'm pretty sure he'd walk through hell for me and mine. That lazy fat ass dog of the Smokin' Hot Little Barefoot Gardening Squaw's though, not so much. That's a king size bed just to give you guys a scale reference on how big he is.
Loco is 12. He was a Jack Russell / Border Collie mix pound rescue that took sick with Parvo just two days after we bought him sick from the county shelter. No refunds, by the way. Yeah fuck you too County, he's still kicking. We just shared a Birthday and he even got a piece of cake, as usual. Like his fat ass needed it. He's not much on party hats though. He's a cantankerous old fart who is obsessed with snatching your food off your plate when you're not looking or are out of the room. Yeah, that's a low down dirty bastard right there ain't it? One time in our young partying lives, we were so broke that we only had enough money to buy 4 double cheeseburgers for the entire day's meals. I got up to go get a glass of water and come back to a missing cheeseburger and this motherfucker was behind the couch eating the paper too and in a hurry, for he knew the storm he'd just created was about to come crashing down upon his shores. From that moment on I've never trusted him around my food. I've even gone as far as to eat in the bathroom and blow my food breath through the door so he could not see or hear me eating it, only smelling the goodness wafting through the door crack. In dog psychology, I've learned a few things over the years. If you take away one of their primary senses, it drives them fucking crazy, especially if they are hell bent on shooting laser eyes through you as you eat and as soon as you look at them they turn their heads like they weren't looking at you. Yeah bitch, I'll play your games... Try me.
Two things in my life I'm dead serious about.
1 - Don't touch or fuck with a man's hat.
2 - Don't touch or fuck with a man's plate.
Have a great afternoon.