He sat majestically in his plastic lawn chair, basking in the sun that the patio let in. He meowed happily at all who crossed the parking lot, gaining many friends in a not-so-friendly apartment complex. And when we went on our nightly walks, his fifteen pounds pulled me along, letting him think he was the boss until I gave the leash a slight tug to let him know that playtime was up and that mama was a hungry human.

Whereas he was once a confident kitty, it now seems that he's turned into a major wus-bag. I just now found myself on my hands and knees using a butter knife to reach the mousey he swatted beneath the oven.

There's no denying that I'm all princess-y when it comes to being dirty. I don't like getting my hands dusty, don't want unkempt clothes, and don't go a day without washing the mermaid-like hair.

Now ask me why I was hunched over, prying in the dust bunny-filled oven underworld for a stinking furry mousey when Hambone has 21 more in a Ziploc in my junk drawer.

It's because my one and only, the light of my life, the apple of my eye, he who shares my bed, my precious kitty-kitty started cry-meowing so pitifully that my heart sank. I knew that he wanted that mouse, and I knew that I had to get it for him.

Oh the things people do to make the ones they love happy.

Now where's my antibacterial hand rub? Ick!

I've obviously been dorking with the template. Let the guestbook know which you prefer. �