Why?
What were you expecting? Pig.
I grew up with dogs. In fact, it's only lately that I haven't had a canine companion drooling all over the show and farting at the most inopportune moments.
And I miss them. ES and I have even considered selling up our little place in Randburg so we can get a FiFi or Bono to run around the place.
But until then, I have to settle for cats.
Admittedly, cats are like athlete's foot: they grow on you pretty quickly, and they smell funny. At least, our's do.
But each of our four terrorists has a distinct personality. And I've learned to read their facial expressions. All four could line up in front of me, and I'd be able to tell you which one (it's almost always Mica) just destroyed something.
Chloe has "naughty ears" - they look like handlebars - Mia's gives you an "eff-off-and-die" look, Rusty looks all sheepish and gets cuddly when he knows he's in trouble, and Mica's guilty. Plain and simple. He yowls louder, as if he's shouting at you.
No comments:
Post a Comment