I searched for Tuxie the Half Blind Biting Machine for over an hour last night, crawling on my hands and knees to look under every piece of furniture, shaking dishes of food and tossing out every cat toy until it looks like a feline daycare exploded in my living room, and searching every closet in the basement thinking I’d possibly locked her in one of the bedrooms that are verboten to the Furbeestes. I gave up around midnight, thinking that she’d somehow gotten her Mr. Magoo tuchus outside even though she doesn’t go near the doors, and I’d find her in the morning out in the tractor shed where she used to live with the Shop Cats, only to discover that the little turd burglar had been watching me search for her from a cubbyhole on my desk the entire time while the rest of the four legged residents of The Island of Misfit Toys giggled amongst themselves like Japanese schoolgirls and refused to tell me where she was hiding.
Get a cat, they said. It will be fun, they said. Hell, go full Crazy Cat Lady after you quit dancing and move to Gopher Crotch, Nebraska and get a dozen of the furry little assholes. Why not?
Cat Hoskins 