Pussy Problems

We're all familiar with the term 'lap dog', aren't we? We've all seen fluffy lap dogs driving Mercedes Benzi (one Mercedes Benz, two Mercedes Benzi, to clarify) or big black Cadillac Escalades. Sure, it's dangerous when a nine pound Lhasa Apso has greater access to the steering wheel than the dog's owner (who just happens to have hair that matches Fluffy's). Rich people can get away with stuff like this, so get over it.

I don't have a lap dog. I prefer to drive myself wherever I need to go. I do, however, have a lap cat. She's not mine. She, Sam, belongs to an errant friend whose house I'm currently visiting. Sam is rather amorous, and thinks that it's her god given right, likely bestowed by some Egyptian cat god, to sit on my lap while I'm at the computer.

Sometimes Sam sits on my lap. Sometimes Sam sits on my laptop. In any event, it's not easy cranking out a blog with fifteen pounds of fur and fangs between my thoughts and the keyboard.

Take a look at Sam in this picture. She's a lovely cat, but she has that look that says 'you wanna piece of me'? I don't dare move her, she's purring so happily. For a while Sam was sitting on my hands. I didn't think that I'd be able to finish typing this blog, but then I had a bright idea...and it worked for a while, but now my toes are now starting to cramp as they're not used to typing, so I'm going to cut my losses and stop here.

You can't silence me, your alter ego. We all know that my thoughts appear in the blog not through normal channels. My thoughts are never typed, they are just willed to appear. Look ma, no hands! No feet either! I could write a short novel here today, Ian, since your hands are tied. I'm loving this feeling of power.

Hey, what are you doing, Ian? Stop kicking at the cord with your feet! Stop it now!! No! No! Don't pull out the plu