By The Cat Called Bob
I like the one guy who lives here. He lets me follow him around the house rubbing against his legs as we walk. The others don’t seem to like it at all.
He scratches my ears. I like having my ears scratched. I like it better than rubbing my ears on the door frame or the carpet. When he’s scratching my ears he always asks me if I like “my ear jerky being scratched.” Ear jerky must be part of some language I am not familiar with. He also refers to my stomach as my “root beer barrel,” my toes as “jelly beans,” my tail as my “crank,” my legs as my “bolts,” my nose as my “sniffer,” my fingernails as “claws,” and my jaws as my “jowls.” That jowl thing just sounds weird to me. He scratches my forehead too. He doesn’t have any strange names for my forehead. I like having my forehead scratched when I’m all stretched out and comfy in the sunlight.
Mostly, though, he just lets me follow him around the house. I walk in and out of his legs. He keeps telling me I’m going to trip him, and he’ll land on me. I’m way to fast for that. I’ll get out of the way.
He combs me a lot with this metal comb that takes off all of the extra hair. It’s relaxing, and it makes my fur feel better. Those clumps kind of hurt sometimes.
Sometimes he tells me I’m socially awkward. I’m not sure what that means either. It could be because I don’t get along with the other cats in the house. Sometimes I just really excited to play, and they aren’t quite as happy as I am to play.
I talk to the fish a lot. Fish always has a lot to say. He’s a good listener.
Well, I better be going. The sun is shinging through the window. I like to roll around on the carpet with the sun on my face.
Clise's Cornucopia 