So we’ve got these cats, as I’ve mentioned before. One of them, Gracie, is soft, purrs a lot, loves a good petting, and cleans himself often. He’s your basic, normal, male cat named Gracie.
Now the other, the other is not normal. He’s not right. There’s something wild, something untamed about him. His name is Moose. Not because I am completely enamored with the species of actual Mooses. (Meeses?) But rather because he’s big. Hefty. Beefy. Brawny. Dare I say, Husky.
You’ll note I did NOT say “FAT”. He’s not fat. The vet said so. That’s not his belly hanging in this picture. It’s…..it’s……it’s muscle.
He’s more like a Puma. Look at him. Acutely alert….waiting for his prey. He can’t help but strike terror in all birds and chipmunks and squirrels. He is fearsome. His body was made for hunting. He’s fast. He bares razor sharp teeth. He draws dagger-like shredding claws. Killing runs hot in his blood, deep in his veins. He knows it. He exudes confidence. He is Moose, the hunting, killing machine. Grrr.
Today, an impressive pile of mouse poop was found behind our saggy leather couch.
The worthless furball.