It’s true. I am a notorious cat-hater who also happens to be a cat owner, and I think I can confirm that they have no actual utility beyond sleeping and pooping twice their body weight. Luckily, Percival is half puppy — he follows me around and always wants to cuddle — so I enjoy his company. I don’t think I’ve put up pictures since he was a wee kitten, so re-meet him:
As you can see from the picture, he has bigger boobs than me. Ah, they grow up so fast!
When he isn’t sleeping on the stairs, he also enjoys sending me into hysterics by poisoning himself with lilies, incurring potential kidney damage, nearly averting death and leaving me with a $1,300 vet bill.
This is Percival at the vet’s office, wearing the Cone of Shame:
Don’t worry, he’s fine. And he’s so happy that he sometimes forgets to put his tongue back into his mouth (he’s sleeping here, but he does it when he’s awake, too):
He’s also really good at screaming at me in the morning, for no apparent reason (feeding shuts him up for about 3 minutes, and then he’s back to the yelling). He constantly flops on his back like a dog — always when he knows he’s in trouble, but more often just because he sees you and wants to be loved. His food-scavenging skills are impressive. He ignores the multitude of toys I have showered him with in favor of playing with pellets of all-natural hippie kittie litter. When you talk to him, he talks back. And he’s a pro at knocking things over and then galloping out of the room as if it wasn’t his fault.
I suppose in his own poop-making, nearly-dying, yelling, back-flopping, tongue-hanging way, Percival is useful. At the very least, that goofy motherfucker brightens my days.
But I still want a dog.