eleven

the ancient egyptians were right: cats are great. really great. cats are so good that i used to want to be one. when asked 'and what do you want to be when you grow up?", my answer was not limited to occupation; no, i was planning to change species.

i read books about cats, moving from slinky malinki, to sophie's tom, to james herriot's cat stories. i had an absolutely beautiful copy of t s eliot's old possum's book of practical cats, illustrated by edward gorey (which i have since lost, because i am an idiot). my jewelry had cats on. i stroked every cat i saw, regardless of the fact i was allergic to them. puffed up eyes, a runny nose and difficulty breathing was a price i was willing to pay for cat-time, goddammit. i still think there are few things better than that feeling of curled-up cat on my stomach, their purrs rumbling through my belly.




oh cats, i salute you, and honour you with a tshirt. seriously though guys, why can you only drink water that's old and full of dead leaves and scum, from a cracked bucket that's been sitting in the garden for two years? what is that about? it's a bit rank to be honest.


(i apologise for the shameless linkage to my own flickr account. they are nice photos of cats though)