Robert Paulson

 

I need to get some sort of winch to hoist Robert Paulson onto my lap. He’s a full on fatty. I know it’s my fault for rescuing him and then making him a shut-in, but damn, he’s way bigger than Bill ever was (RIP BFF).

Paulson has developed turtle-like qualities, in as much as he can’t roll over off his back, he get’s terrified if he ends up on his back, or if I awaken him in splayed chicken pose. Furthermore, he had his first nightmare the otherday. I was reading on the couch and Paulson was snoozing in his chair and then began hissing like a dog was in the room, and I got up to check him out. He was deep asleep, eyes shut, hissing, probably dreaming of me.

Although I only have one cat, his obesity makes me feel like a hoarder. I’m gonna make a workout program for him, but as he is almost my size and has much sharper nails, I will be investing in some of the weird dog training gear from the store on the corner, and maybe a chain-mail suit, for good measure.

One time I sat on Bill, my OG black cat from Brooklyn who lived with me for 17 years. I had black sheets on the bed and I plopped down to put on lotion after a shower and ended up wearing Bill as a backpack. He grasped my shoulders with his front claws and dug his back paw talons into my lady lumps, AKA muffin tops. Shrieking I jumped up, but Bill stayed on. I had to lay on my side to get him to release me from his deathgrip. Since I am allergic to cats I ran in the bathroom and poured peroxide down my back and then threw on my bathrobe. When I came out of the bathroom Bill was licking my blood off his claws and eyeballing my ankles. Lesson learned, cats would kill us if they could, but they’ll tolerate our feeding and petting them and the obsessive bagging of their turds until then.

 

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