Chatanooga Chewbacca Chalfont-Smythe

Well. I never. I thought that kind of behaviour had gone out with the ark. I mean? When was the last time you invited two giraffes to dinner? Dreadful scenes. Dreadful. Although strangely erotic. Amazing tongues, giraffes. They can lick their own ears. Apparently.

Funny how no animal can lick it’s own arse. Ah yes. The cat. Le humble chat. And yet, so much of a hold does it have over hooman kind that it can survive licking it’s OWN arse. I mean, we’ve spent tens of thousands of years perfecting the mechanisms by which we get other hoomans to lick our arse, or perhaps suffer the indignity of licking someone else’s. And yet. The cat. The humble mog. Has bewitched us into both caring for what is infinitely unsentimental. And also it licks its own arse. The more I think about this, the more disturbed I become.

So I won’t. I was having another thought then. But I was distracted. Possibly by a cat moth. Or maybe a Moth Cat.

I’ve been re-reading my favourite book. My reference book. The book by which I have always gauged that I can, in fact, as opposed to cat-lore, write. And I’ve come to the rather disturbing conclusion that it is a leetel beet juvenile.

Old farts and chats. Go out in the midday sun. And lick their own arse. Mainly because they can’t reach their ears…..

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