Cats Off To Ya!

Please be warned: I killed so many brain cells this weekend that today's blogging might be on the pooped-pants side of childish. There's nothing like an open bar at a house party, not remembering how on earth you got home, and waking up the next morning with a huge bruise on your knee and every single earthly possession of yours strewn on your floor. It reads like an archaelogical dig, trying to put together the events that somehow landed you under your covers spooning a box of Triscuits (Happy Valentine's Day, Trisky.) And in all this chaos, I somehow had the good sense to remove my contact lenses and place them not in their designated contact case, but directly in front of the case, on my dresser, where they hardened and wrinkled much like your face after a night of heavy smoking/drinking. I'll save you the more colorful details of my return home, but I will say this: Grey Goose vodka can knock a bitch out.

So today, halfway recovered, I bring you some snapshots taken of my cat, Lutzy (Hungarian for Louis), from my last trip home in January. It may not be fully evident in these pictures, but this cat really hates my ass. Maybe it's because I still put him in bonnets, plop him in an abandoned baby carraige, and push him around my house like the proud mother of an overweight, fur-covered newborn. Or maybe it's all of that psychological torture from when he was a small rapscallion ("Nobody loves you! Nobody! That's why we only feed you dry food... we all hate you.") JK, obvs. JK.


Lutzy's preferred method of cooling off his "ghost balls." Oliver Sacks indeed.


Seen from behind.


I quietly harass him with my lens as he covers his eyes to block out the vision of me.


I get in closer to further the harassment.


YOY! Liddle Kiddy Feet. Heh, heh, heh.


Leave quickly. He knows.