So I have two furbabies who a friend has kept now for 4 years. Killing me. Just killing me. The worst is, every time we visit, Girly Girl (Widgette) makes a beeline to her carrier. She wants to go home.


She belongs to my son. I’m quite certain people do not choose the cat – the cat chooses their Hoo-man. She chose Spawn.

Of course, he was the one home most of the day. I was just the hoo-man who gave out treats.


(she gave birth in his bed, as well. Rolled up in his quilt next to him. Completely freaked him out when he rolled over and heard kitten eeps. I was checking out at the grocery and he called crying – SHE HAD HER KITTENS IN MY BED AND I DON’T THINK SHE’S DONE!!! She wasn’t. She had one more by the time I got home.)

She also likes my coat. She thinks she looks good in it.


Barbossa – or Lord Thunderbutt – chose me.


He seems to think I need to wear as much of him as possible when we visit.

He likes to eat.


Apparently, unless you leave food out 24/7 (I know, not good) he thinks he’s being starved and will wolf it down at scheduled times only to cough it back up. We’re going to have a time when we get back in our own place and he’s put back on a schedule and an exercise regimen.  He is 20 pounds of Tub-of-love! He’s the poster-child of ‘lazy cat’…


Oh, harken back to when he was a kitten. Apparently, there was a bird outside the dining room window, teasing…


I miss them muches. When I was sick, Widgette would sleep with me across my legs. Of course, Lord Thunderbutt likes to take the catnip mouse up inside my box springs and get stoned and sing all night. When we move, I will make sure there is a fitted sheet on the bottom so my box springs will be off-limits.