I’ve had cats my entire life. My first cat I got when I was four or five years old, and it was love/cat torture at first squeeze. I carried her around by one arm, tied strings around her neck and took her for walks, which she vehemently protested, and dressed her in my best doll clothes. I agonized for days, nay, for weeks over the best cat-name EVAR. Rainbow Brite Princess was a huge contender, so was Fairy Princess Rainbow. The more “rainbows” and “princesses” I could cram in there, the better. I couldn’t make up my mind; I mean, she would have to live with this name for the rest of her little kitty life!!! So I went with:
Fast forward to present day. I’ve had one cat since Klammy died, Ophelia, who had a thing with water and a major case of autism. I added Pharrah to the collection after I stole her from my little sister. In her kittenhood, Pharrah was youthful and spritely. She’s about 3 right now, and some things have changed. Drastically.
Like her weight. Here she is, delighting in her fatness.
Awhile back there was a slight panic in San Francisco because the seals that visit Pier 39 disappeared. Well, I know where one of them went. Jesus, she is SO FAT.
Pharrah is an emotional eater. When she’s happy because I’ve come home, she eats. When she’s pissed off and wants to barf all over me for abandoning her for a weekend, she eats. When you touch her, she runs to her food bowl and gorges herself so long as you are there to watch her.
She also ate all her cat grass and cat nip I lovingly planted for her. I took time and money to make sure she didn’t feel left out when I had a wee garden and planted her fucking cat grass and how am I repaid?? By little cat grass carcasses strewn about my room, carelessly tossed aside when they no longer provided a struggle to live.
Pharrah then barfed them up. Everywhere. Fucking fail.
She also exhibited some signs of Stockholm syndrome when she had fleas. It was creepy.
Here she is being fat and seal-like.
What a fatty. I’m sure me calling her fat doesn’t do much for her eating disorder. Mommy’s not perfect, sweetheart.
She talks when I pet her. I like to pet her. That’s a lie. I don’t pet her. I don’t know why I said that. She would just as soon as barf in my sock and let me find it at 6 am when I’m groggily getting ready for the gym than let me touch her in a loving manner. Ingrate.