The Fucking Cat has gotten into the toilet paper, yet again. Don’t chide me about this. I have no problem keeping the shower door closed. It’s someone else in this house who has the problem.
Yet still, she continues to be a part of our family.
Here’s why. She’s damn cute.
Here she is lounging in a tiny mid-century modern chair that Loony bought for her.
Why? I don’t know. I’ve given up trying to understand.
Loony visited an abandoned farm today and dug through “30 years of raccoon shit” to find some valuable denim.
I told him to keep that shit out of the house. No joke. If he sorts that crap (literally) on my dining room table, I’m going to kill him.
Then he kept waxing rhapsodic about a raccoon he discovered hibernating amidst the piles. He went on and on about its luxurious coat; it was weird.
I’m not sure what to make of this. I’m calling the authorities if he shows up with a coonskin vest.
Time to cut the crap: