In the world are places where it is hard out there for a cat.
Places where you live out in the cold and rain, scavenge for food, live in constant danger of cars and dogs and rabid squirrels.
The Fire Direction Center is not one of those places.Our two current occupants of the "housecat" position have life pretty damn sweet. They get petting from adorable kidlets whenever they want it.
Or whenever they don't. As a Fire Cat, you get the feline equivalent of three hots and a cot, that is, a heaping bowlful of nasty canned animal byproducts (that's a fairly descriptive word, "byproducts", isn't it? Pretty much warns you what you're in for...), fresh water, and a kibble all-you-can-eat buffet. Lots of soft carpets, sofas, and beds to sleep on, no matter how nasty wet and dirty you've gotten from rainy garden expeditions.
Mind you, there is a price to pay.Every so often, you get snatched up, tossed into a plastic box, and carted off to this stinky place where some woman you haven't even been introduced to feels you all over and shoves some sort of probe up your backside. You even get owie shots, and the entire experience is so degrading, especially the part where you wet yourself because you're so freaked out by the entire anal-probe thing, that when you get home you just want to slink away for a while and hope that everyone forgets what happened.Missy was intrigued by the whole business, and wanted to know what the cat was thinking, which I suspect at this point was something along the lines of "I really need to be more picky about hiring staff. The servants are really fucking trying when they forget who's in charge." Miss Nitty was a very good kitty and only hissed a little bit.But you could see that she didn't feel gracious about the entire business.Sorry for the hiatus, but it's been a busy week, and what time I've spent blogging has largely been commenting on other blogs. I'll try and be back with more this weekend.