In my last post, I said I’d talk about clothes, but actually, I don’t have that much to say about clothes, other than that I love sleeping on papa’s old sweater, and just last night, that dumb human got up to pee and passed by my nice comfortable feather bed where I recline most of the day—at night I like to sleep between mama’s knees where I nestle down and where her hand can just reach me in case I need a little reassurance that all is well and where I can get at it to give her a bath, which I do often, god knows why she needs a bath from me but she seems to love it and lets me lick all up her arm and give her little nips and when I get her all clean, then I start on myself, but I diverge; what I was saying was that papa went into the bathroom to pee and on the way back, he sort of gave a loving pat to what he thought was me but guess what—it was his SWEATER!! God knows what’s gonna happen if mama or papa actually lose touch with reality (later on—MUCH later on maybe when they’re a hundred or so) because to be mistaken for an old ratty black sweater, even if it is Merino wool, is really a little offensive. After all, I am who I am and very evidently a gorgeous, silky (olive oil does it every time—also mama’s grooming, which I love because then she gives me malt paste afterward and man, that stuff is good, good) creature who does not resemble in any way, form or manner a SWEATER. But—people do make mistakes and when mama came home with that black fox Russian hat she tossed on the bed, I snuggled and licked it and pulled its hair and nipped it a bit until I realized that I was falling for a hat. Thank heaven no one saw me do that. Whew.
So back to clothes—I love to sneak in closets and bat at clothes and I love those Ikea storage boxes made of material where people store their off-season stuff because it’s a great little mattress under the bed (where mama keeps them) for me when I need to hide so that they can’t put me in that cage and take me to the lady who wants to stick me with a needle or feel me up.
