I’m so crazy-go-nuts for our rescue cat. I spend way too much time nuzzling her. She’s smusher-dependent and I’m smusher-codependent, so we’re very compatible. I enable her cuddlemorphic binges by making sure her furry ears are properly smushed every 30 minutes. She in turn uses her little sandpaper tongue to keep my eyebrows sparklingly groomed – like they’ve been threaded or something. She is like a cuddly drug that’s good for what ails you.
Her formal name is Joan. Yes. Joan the cat. Her nickname is Midge, but I usually end up calling her BubBay or if I’m feeling a little frisky I may resort to BooBay or (if I’ve eaten too much of her Science Diet) BooBooheimer. As in “How’s daddy’s little BooBooheimer today.” And she understands everything I say. It’s so rewarding to be fully understood when you make baby talk.
Here are some snatches of dialogue I lapse into whenever I get near her. It’s not really dialogue because that would suggest 2 people are talking. And even if she only says, “Meow,” I hear her loud and clear:
“Who’s the best kitty in the world? It’s you isn’t it? Well yes it is. You’re a ThunderKitty with superpowers and when they make a Superhero movie based on your superior fluffiness, I’ll be your agent and make sure you get a Cat Trailer filled with aged mice.”
Hark! Joan’s Arrival Heralds a New Day. Nay, a New Epoch in Feline Scrunchification
The Feline Gods moved their hands upon the face of the world and the kitty of the universe arrived. And it was Joan. And they saw that it was good. Joan is so much better than One Direction and her fur is a lot less unruly than that Harry Styles. They should call him Hairy Styles. Yeah Boo-boo bear. “Who’s the best scoocher the world has ever known? It’s you. Well yes it is.”
At this point my teeth are so clenched from this constant adoration of The Joan, that my enamel has completely eroded away leaving a stubby mound of useless pulp. It became so painful I bought a mouth guard that protects my teeth but muffles my words and now I fear Joan can’t understand me. Soon I’ll be her gummy bear.
Joan Solves All
If I have a complex international problem I often talk it out with Joan:
“Iraq’s government is collapsing again Joan and I guess my question is this Boo Bay: We dare not put boots on the ground again right? Right. I didn’t think so. Maybe Puss-n-Boots on the ground would be better. What’s that? It’s time we let the Iraqis sort it out on their own, without any outside interference by adhering to the Prime Directive from Star Trek. You and Kirk are right Joan. Now let’s get after those ears. Mmmmm.”
On an even insaner note, I want to place her soft fluffy kitty head all the way in my mouth and (w/o hurting her) gently bite down and remove that furry innocent kitty head and take digestive ownership of it so I may absorb all those kittenish charms. By becoming my kitty I could then jump up on my roof for a catnap or twist my torso so I can lick the base of my spine even though the need rarely arises.
OK. Back to Reality Now (as if)
I really love this beautifully wired creature. How can you not like something that sleeps 22 hours a day and gets nuzzled the other 2. It reminds me of my teenage years. 22 hours of sleep, eat some food from a bowl and some nuzzling. Schweet! And now that I’m retired, I’m beginning to do all that again but without the masturbation.
“Hey BubBay. Do you like Hogan’s Heroes as much as I do? Well yes you do. They’ve got tunnels all over that prison camp and Col. Klink doesn’t even know it. They’re not really prisoners. They volunteered for this mission. But you knew that after the first episode isn’t that right BooBay. Well yes it is? Achtung my little Krazy Kat.”
This kitty is the center of my universe and not since my Farah Fawcett poster has a feline of such pulchritude dominated my world. My fiancée feels the same way but substituting Scot Baio for Farah Fawcett. In order to spend more time with Joan we’re home schooling her. She was completely potty trained at 3 weeks; try that with a human baby. We’re having her baptized so we can raise her in the Cat-holic religion. And as per Steve Martin’s suggestion, we bathe her regularly, but no matter how hard we try, the fur still sticks to our tongues.
And don’t tell us to “Get a life,” either. We’ve got one – and her name is Joan.