The Wife keeps a feline. A calico house cat that's probably about as evil as Satan herself. Seriously, this cat has serious interpersonal issues: she doesn't like being touched below the neck, she doesn't like sudden movements, I've seen her kick a dog's ass, and she fucking barfs every once and a while. I mean, your life is easy Cat; you don't have to work and you get to shit in a box. What's your deal?

Well, I finally found out. That scrunt just needed to get fucked up! Yeah, I was flipping the channels the other day, and I ran across this show that was doing a spot on catnip. These cats were literally wallowing in this catnip bush, purring and meowing, rolling on top of eachother. If I'd not known any better, I would've thought it was a dramatization. So I dug out this plastic container of dried catnip from The Wife's cat supplies; and sprinkled a pile of it on a washcloth. I set it in front of The Evil One, and she began to roll around in it. Then she starting eating it, rolling the old terrycloth towelette around her paws. Not ten minutes later she was glassy-eyed and unresponsive to stimuli that usually send her scampering for a hiding spot.

I called a farm supply store in town and asked about plants. I figure the fresher it is, the better the buzz, right? They don't get plants in until the spring; but they have seed backets for a buck fifty. When I get back from vacation, I'm going to start growing my own plants. Dude, that damn cat is never going to be the same.