Poopy Cake Offering of the Gods

I spent the day before yesterday at my favorite daughters house . She's my favorite on account o' her life is boring compared to her sister of diminished capacity. We did all those girly things like, eat weird food, watch movies and kara-croake until even the kids began to weep. I think they wept because there was no place safe from the resounding echo. Even the lathe and plaster was no match for our pitchiness. Good thing I brought spackle.

We had a good time. The weather was fair and the dog was decent, for the most part, up until he dug up Destiny's flowers, and the kids were...kids, in fact, they dug up the flowers first. Apparently Merlin thought it looked like great fun. There's something about bare dirt that is irresistible to rug rats and ankle biters.

Cats are also drawn to the recently turned earth, yet for an entirely different reason. It's obvious why the feline megalomaniacle are the preferred pets to the Me-me generation. They're furry little reflections of the American Urbanite. The typical pygmy lion is born absolutely convinced that the sole reason for any creature to till the earth is for them to have a convenient place to store their cherished excrement. The way the ailurophile rushes in upon impact, swooping down, pooper-scooper in one hand and ziploc baggy in the other, they must think we like it...a lot. My cats are of the common barn variety, yet they don't hesitate a moment when they see me on my knees turning the earth for their lordships. The automated autocratic stealth imperiously attempts to slither up beneath me and into the pre-fluffed sod for the excreta offa donum ille de dei (poopy cake offering of the gods).

You'd think they'd eventually take a hint. Eight generations of feline deities have domiciled on this humble farm, and every one of them has gotten the same treatment, a dirt clod up side o' the head for attempting to activate any bodily functions within the walls of my sequestered garth of sensory delight, let alone within whiffing distance.

Dogs, on the other hand, no matter how chummy they are with the children of Bastet, still have to hover and patiently await the anally retentive felines to grant them an audience with their poo-poo. Cats are okay with us lowly creatures bowing down on our knees and praising their gifts while whisking them away discretely, but dog, the lowly, is more of an eat-n-run diner. No ritualistic servitude, just a big slobbering mouth rummaging for viscera cakes.

All-of-a-sudden, I know why cats stick their butts in our faces!
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4/30/2005 1:48 AM