Spit just got home from a visit to the vet.  he got some big-boy shots and cuddles from his girlfriend, Ashley.  she’s human, but he thinks details like that don’t matter.  she loves him and he loves her and therefore they should get married.  i can’t wait to see the kittens.  as it happens, though, the gal and the doc talked about a couple of things that will need attention in the next month or so; surgical attention.  part of growing up means that Spat has sprouted a set of jingle-bells that look like young pumpkins, and bless his little heart, he swears the doc said she would take care of them!!  the kid has no idea what that kind of care entails.  i tried to explain it to him; that he’s going to take a nap and wake up a couple of ounces lighter.  i even showed him where mine used to be.  i told him he won’t miss them, he’ll live a longer, healthier life without them.  i told him that none of us are intact, and as a result, we are all calmer.  we don’t spray,  we don’t look for trouble.

then it occurred to me that the reason there is so much saber-rattling and chest-thumping coming out of the white house right now is because the comb-over king has not been neutered.  he’s sporting a double bolus that pumps bombast into his veins around the clock.  no wonder he swaggers like an over-stimulated rooster in the global henhouse; he’s poisoned with his own mancrap, and by gum, he’s poisoning us, too.  i’m calling the vet and changing Spore’s appointment with the scissors to a twofer.  i know the doc can “take care” of the kid AND our national nightmare with a couple of quick nicks.   i’ll need help getting 45 to his appointment.  any volunteers??   purr, y’all.