meet fuzzzy-butt...

...the resident cat. doesn't he look nice? ha ha. actually, i'm told by max that fuzzy really is nice...as long as he gets his way--i think i've already mentioned the fact that this sourpuss thinks he calls all the shots around here--i suppose seniority does entitle one to privileges. and mr. fuzzleworth (as he's sometimes called) definitely qualifies as a senior. believe it or not, he is 17 years old, and, trust me, he shows no signs of relinquishing power--real or imagined--though lord knows i've tried to wrangle it from him on more than one occasion. in truth we rarely interact because we don't need to. he leaves my food alone and i leave him alone when he's sleeping--which is most of the time. i used to try playing with him when i was younger, but there never seemed to be any point to it. i'd chase him, he'd squeeze under some chair or couch, then taunt me in that sarcastic, neener neener neener kind of way he has. yes...he's a cranky kitty cat, and yet, i find myself oddly inspired by him (and by "oddly" i mean weird, and by "inspired" i mean...i get weird) :

mr. fuzzeratti
thinks his perfect job
is to drive a mazerati...
'n be a hitcat for the mob.

"i think i'd look great with
a big fedora on my head...
i've also got a unique way
to kill my victims dead.

i'll bite off all their fingertips
and scratch between their toes...
then i'll hock up a big hairball
and shove it up their nose."

"oh shut up, little fuzzy-butt"
i tell him with a sniff
"somehow i think that you're the only one
who'll wind up stiff.

that's not to say that i don't hope
you'll realize your wishes,
but take care, kitty, 'cuz you'll wind up
sleeping with the fishes.

now curl up on the sofa, sir
and take another nap,
this tale goes in the cat box
with all your other crap."

the end

there is absolutely nothing fun about writing poetry on this particular blog-site...at least when you're me and you haven't a clue about the special language the internet uses. shouldn't a space mean a space? shouldn't i just be able to write my words without fear that somehow they're gonna come out all crammed together or spaced so far apart they actually occupy someone else's blog? apparently stuff that makes sense to me doesn't occur to the good folks who create these things. you know, it's times like this when i'm most grateful to be a dog. a beautiful, spoiled, lovely, humble, precious dog--and not some bigshot website-writin' guy who's whole purpose for living is to make life a living hell for me. all those <<<<'s and >>>>'s with all those letters in-between. holy canoli...that, my friends, was freakin' exhausting...and i am totally spent. spent i tell you! i need a cookie... and a nap. in that order.

"My life has no purpose, no direction, no aim, no meaning, and yet I'm happy. I can't figure it out. What am I doing right?" ~ Charles M. Schultz