My little black cat has grown too plump. She is Jaba the Hut. Same eyes. Similar athletic prowess.
If a mouse walked by the couch, she’d ask it to make her a corn dog.
When she gets good and ready, she stands. Her tiny paws and peg legs struggle to hold up her blimp ass.
I leave the house to work out. She rolls her eyes at me, cracks open a Coors.
This haughty bitch makes Garfield look svelte.
Her real name is Harriett. She used to look dignified. Feline. Worthy of such a name.
We got to know her green eyes and her vacant stare. Now she is Tutu.
All winter, she’s plubbed out on her carpet tree in the living room.
Her whiskers twitch. She is a miniature walrus. A dream befurred.
For laughs, we sprinkle catnip over her head. We hold our breath and watch her for signs of playful mrow-mrow. But her eyes glaze. She flops over to watch Top Gear.
Her flaccid cat teats are knackered weasels, forlorn and aimless.
She got fixed. On the way home my son held her tenderly, but taunted her with, “Tubes Wubes has no boobs.”
Mon chat noir has her claws. All of them. When she takes a swipe at my daughter, I wish she’d run away.
But who am I kidding, she can’t run at all.
Here’s what’s next for my fool cat. The lulz in this video will work your rectus abdominus. ‘Cause I know that’s why you’re here.