Nip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah

A while ago, mom felt my nip mat that Miss Ellen made me needed to be washed.

I didn't think anything was wrong with it and couldn't understand why it needed laundering.

It had my own personal scent all over it, and I thought the purpose was to allow L’odeur de l’herbe à chat to permeate the fabric for my pleasure.

I've never really been one for catnip except on rare occasions, but I do lay on the mat often, especially since it's in the front window upstairs.

So, mom opened up the outer fabric and removed the scented pad inside, but before she could throw the outer cover in the washing machine I got the urge to partake of the stronger scent of the inner liner and went to town on it.

So like I said, this was a while ago, and since then my furs have once again covered the top side, which, I feel, is how it should be. 

Now, I know we felines don't all experience the same sensations while under the influence, but dad did his best with this new background after I described to him one of my hallucinations. Pretty trippy, no?
 

Something about playing with feathers, being old, bathing and napping or something, I don't know.

 In captivity, many felines rely on their self-proclaimed "owners" for companionship, sustenance, waste removal, and leisurely activities. However, in the event none of said "owners" are available or are just too effing busy to care, some creatures must take it upon themselves to satisfy their need for amusement. As such, in the case of this one particularly lovely, extraordinary, allegedly senior individual, such needs are met as the infrequent longing for entertainment arises (and as the male "owner" sits lazily nearby, phone camera in hand) only when she explores a container of assorted playthings tucked beneath a wooden structure purchased for the sole purpose of the aging male "owner" to rest his derriere upon while placing fabric and rubber sheaths upon his massive, malformed hooves.

After brief distractions from some unknown item above, the camera's flash, and the sudden need to bathe, 

and having settled on a feather-tipped wand of sorts,

this exceptionally ravishing specimen of her species paws at said feather-tipped joystick only briefly before noticing the camera's intrusion, causing great annoyance. Surrendering in defeat, the moody morsel of feline exquisiteness succumbs in repose, the half-withered plume the final vision her drooping eyelids close upon. 

 Umm, okay. And they all lived happily ever after? What is this? Is there a moral here? What the fudge, dad?