So I got the comb treatment, again. Mom and dad feel the need to comb me about once a month. They babble on about how it helps keep me from puking up hairballs, keeps my coat smooth and shiny, blah, blah, blah, etc., etc., etc., I guess I don't mind, for the most part. Maybe I'm getting used to it. Don't tell them, though. Throughout the process I piss and moan, grumbling under my breath for dramatic effect, which they find amusing. But when it comes time to comb my, umm, lower region, WATCH OUT! I hate that! I really do. Dad makes fun of the white spot on my belly. Mom grabs my tail and draws the comb from right above my butthole down to the tip. What are they thinking? How would they like it if I did this to them?
Dad makes fun of me now and then, asking if I'm part kangaroo, squeezing my sagging belly-skin and joking about my pouch. Come on, I'm old, and besides, he has one, too! Sometimes I find these two people irritating. But I love them. But they can be annoying. But they take care of me. Man, such a rollercoaster of emotions. I'm tired, so I'm gonna go curl up next to the cat sarcophagus and nap. More on that thing later. Dad's nudging me, saying that he needs to get on here to work on his fabulous and explosive first novel (which he's been working on for more than a year!). Riiight! Procrastination is his middle name! Oops- here he comes. Bye.