Wow, it's steamy. The two-legger says "It ain't the heat, it's the humidity," whatever that means. I think it's just too warm and damp, myself. And Matisse isn't helping. He lies in the hairless one's favorite shredded overstuffed chair and licks himself endlessly. Do you know where all that cat spittle goes? You guessed it, straight into the atmosphere, adding to the dampness, and also a major cause of global climate change. When I'm done with this post, I'm writing Al Gore.
I gave him a nudge to try to get him to lay off all the slobbering on himself (the cat, not Al Gore, I don't know where he lives) but that didn't go so well. My nose is healing very nicely now, and thanks for asking.
That was some thunderstorm we had Thursday night. Funny, the skies were clear and I didn't see that much lightning. When it started up again down the street at 1AM, the hairless one used those special words he usually utters when he stubs his toe on the marrow bone I leave in the bathroom hallway before I go to bed.
I'm not one of those wussy dogs that hides under the bed during thunderstorms, I live for danger and excitement. Except when the two-leggers use the vacuum cleaner, then that's a whole different story. Those things are deadly; they are the number two cause of farm accidents. I read that somewhere. Or maybe I just made that up, I forget. The hairless one usually bans me to a back bedroom to avoid the risk of being mutilated by the Hoover. Loyal companion that I am, though, I insist on coming out and running around it in circles to distract it from closing in on my master. I think it's coming after me next. It seems to enjoy a steady appetizer of my furballs, which dance around the wood floors like exquisitely lithe Bolshoi ballerinas. My creative writing class is coming along quite well, don't you think?
Oof, all this talk about dancing coupled with the fact the hairless one is too cheap to turn on the A/C has me drowsy, I think it's time for a nap and a virtual squirrel chase. Catch you later.
