Cat Romance and Booze

There have been a couple young cats prowling around our neighborhood lately, and up until today I’d only seen them from a distance. One is mostly white with brown patches of fur, the other one is a solid gray. They appear to be pals because up until today I'd always seen them together. This morning before work as I was enjoying some nicotine-filled morning air on the back deck, the little gray cat decided to join me. She probably wanted a cigarette too, but she’ll have to buy her own because those things are too expensive to share with just any cat who wants one.

She seemed like a very pleasant cat, as cats go. I’ve never been a fan of the species myself, but since she was willing to be petted and scratched without trying to claw my eyes out I decided she was alright. In fact, I was taken enough with her that I decided to call her Gloria. I don’t know for sure if the cat is a he or a she, but the other white and brown cat has a decidedly masculine look about him, while this one is smaller, has a sassy little purple collar, and looks kind of girly. I suppose Gloria might be an effeminate male cat with a fondness for fashion and other male cats, but for the sake of my delicate constitution I’m going to assume it’s a female. I can’t bear to think that there might be homosexual cats roaming my wholesome neighborhood. Next thing you know, they’ll be petitioning the government to get married and then we'll all die in the fiery pits of hell.

Anyway, the cat and I spent a few short moments together and then I went inside to get ready for work. Gloria probably went to find the white and brown cat to tell him to keep his mouth shut about their clandestine love affair, because Hillsboro Village is not yet ready for their kind of hot man-on-man action.

I fear that my future interactions with Gloria will have to be seriously limited, because within a couple minutes of our encounter I was sneezing and wheezing, and my eyes felt like they were on fire. By the time I got to work, the sneezing had stopped, but my eyes were still red and swollen. My co-workers took one look at my bloodshot eyes and asked me what was wrong. I said, “I guess I should have stopped at three shots of tequila with my cereal this morning.”

This didn't faze them in the slightest, because they just collectively shrugged and said, "Yeah, probably." It was like this was par for the course; that on any given day they expected me to flounce into the office wearing go-go boots and pasties, dragging a keg of beer behind me to enjoy with my lunch.

I'm really going to have to be more careful about my reputation.