When dealing with a house-hold feline whilst it’s in heat can be extremely frustrating. She saunters around the house whining and crying for a Tom to satisfy her needs. But because you don’t want little kitties all over the place you keep her inside. One, that’s bad, you’ll be up until three o’clock in the morning listening to her horribly annoying yowls. Two, it’s also good; again we revisit the little kitties issue. Three, please don’t kick the cat. I know you want to but don’t. There are too many animal rights activists out there that would sooner plaster you with red paint than find out the truth they’re sort of…“trigger happy”.
Twitch. My cat. Almond, tinted butterscotch eyes that peer lazily at you, as if she didn’t give a hoot whether you die today or tomorrow. She rubs up against you with her short, silky fur. The black of her fur imitates shadows of the night, darker than ebony, blacker than coal. About the size of a football, but please, dear God do not kick her! Even though she’s wracked with uncontrollable “whore-moans” she some how manages to add that extra bit of grace to her step. (How she manages that with her tail curved to the side, I don’t know.)
Twitch has a very interesting set of vocals. She sings “Let me out,” and bellows “Take me I’m yours,” just the constant stream of irritating purrs, and irksome yowls. If I had a gun, nah, I wouldn’t do that. That’s for Charles Manson, or maybe Ted Bundy.
She swings her tale side to side, over and over and over again. Wafting her “Chanel #5” everywhere! The nauseating and stomach-churning stench filled every nook and cranny, there was no escaping it. I’m sure the male cats outside where going crazy.