Crazy Pussy

The last time I talked about my c@t, I got a bunch of weird spam comments. So, I'm going to try not to use the word: c@t.

Anyway, I have three pussies and the oldest one is 10-years-old (now, that out to generate some interesting spam). Her name is Sasha and she is so mean that my roommate thinks she is some sort of reincarnation experiment: perhaps a bit Joan Crawford with a splash of Bette Davis.

When she was a young pussy, she would stalk moths. I used to live in Colorado Springs and we'd go through "Miller Moth Season." It's what it sounds like: a ton of annoying migrating moths fly around your bulbs on the front porch and balcony lights and zoom inside at the first chance.

Sasha used to squeeze herself into the space between the top of our kitchen cabinets and ceiling and wait. They'd flit around the ceiling lights and she'd never take her eyes off of them. I never actually saw her catch them, but inevitably I'd look up at her and she'd have a bit of wing poking out of her clenched jaw.

Whatever. It kept them off of me and my wool sweaters.

But, Sasha was just a tiny baby pussy (not like Anne Heche's) with all kinds of energy. These days, she spends most days moving herself from sunny spot to sunny spot: not unlike a retiree on a Florida beach.

Until a few weeks ago. See, she'd been spending an awful lot of time in our kitchen lately. I just assumed it was because we were baking for the holidays and it was one of the toastiest rooms in the house.

Oh, but no.

Little miss had spotted a mouse.

Yes, there was a mouse in my house!

I didn't know but you can bet my pussy knew.

How did we find out?

Turns out the old pussy caught the fucking mouse.

Imagine my surprise when I walked into the kitchen to find her sitting at attention, as proud as you please, with this little gift for me.

There was high praise for her as she dropped it and presented it to me.

She may be considered a "senior" as far as pussies go, but clearly Sasha still has a lot of fight in her.