Apparently today is my birthday according to my medical records from the vet I was taken to after I was captured (I mean before I was adopted.) I suppose everyone has one of these days and today is as good a day as any to turn 2. Or at least that’s how young the records claim I am. They must have counted my rings like a tree or some other sort of voodoo like that to quantify my exact age. But I don’t feel a day over 1... Even though I have been prematurely grey since birth. I am just a distinguished gentleman like that. I wasn’t awarded a lot of time to compile an extensive birthday wish list since SHE just started mentioning this birthday thing to me the other day... “it’s someone’s birthday soon!! Who’s birthday is coming? Who’s? Who’s going to be a birthday face?” Well why do you have to be all oblique about it? How the hell am I supposed to know? If it’s mine, why can’t you just say that?! I’m a cat not a freaking super sleuth. So in the interim I’ve decided on world peace, to be set free, or a zhu zhu pet. And then whatever I don’t get, I’ll submit to Santa... Because even though she keeps saying I’m a good boy, I’m gonna need some proof. What??? We don’t celebrate Christmas? Add a Christmas tree to the birthday list.
Unfortunately I didn’t get any of the things I wanted. I bet none of you saw that one coming. Instead I got picked up and hugged, an extra hairball reducing treat, a decently sung (meaning other neighborhood cats didn’t come running) personal rendition of Happy Birthday to Scoo, and a self-propelled mouse on wheels. I suppose it could have been worse. She could have tried to put a hideous birthday hat on me, hired a singing telegram or a scary clown, or purchased me an ugly sweater that I’d never take the tags off. I guess I’ll hold off on being set free for at least another year...
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