Monday Mo

Once upon a time, Mo had a spring in his step. He was the young pup around here. Then … the little white furball came along, and now Mo spends most days just trying to keep his $h*t together. Part of me feels bad for him because he’s constantly chased, jumped upon, shoved out of the way at the food dish and … horrifically enough … forced to endure unsolicited cuddling from the very one responsible for victimizing him all day long.

But then I remember the way he treated Chivus for 3 years and I stop feeling so sorry for him.

Mo turned from spry kitten to a 90 year old grump over the course of just a few weeks this past spring. Did you hear how back in 2008 he had to walk uphill both ways to the litterbox? IN. THE. SNOW. With no claws, mind you. Nary a furry mouse nor a crinkle toy to be found. It was just an empty paper bag for Mo. An empty paper bag and the cold, crushing blow of despair.

I couldn’t even get him to look at me here.  He was too busy being annoyed that Sisko was using up all the oxygen in his vicinity. Just sitting over there, having audacity to suck air into his lungs in what is obviously Mo’s air space.