I’d like to throw a shout out to Clementine, our beloved rescue cat.
She is round like a Clementine only larger, like a Pomelo. She’s a British tabby, the feline bulldog. Clementine was taken away from her mother too soon. She doesn’t know she’s a cat and is supposed to do cat things, like, take a bath. My wife and I do that for her. She has what I call danglers, little gifts she leaves around our house. It’s like Easter every day.
I’ve been trying to get a video of her doing backflips, which she occasionally does with ease, but she’s not interested in money. She acts like she’s terrified of me. She dives under the bed, but only half way.
Although she’s smallish you’d think her cat box was a man box, nearly producing her own body weight daily. Very impressive. What’s advertised as the world’s best cat litter is proof that there really is a God. Before the discovery of this heaven-sent product, she would make her statement and shit outside the box. Point taken.
There’s an abundance of coyote’s in the green belt near my house and I feel concern for Clementine. Often cats go missing. I frequently hear what sounds like her “end times,” only to discover she doesn’t have a care in the world. The cat who cried coyote. There are plenty of “Have you seen Fluffy?” reward signs, with a picture and a phone number hanging around, so the threat is real.
I’ve seen part of Fluffy. How much do I get for a foot?