why does the cat look like it god blood all over it and wasnt cleaned to well?
Good question. I couldn’t have typed it better myself. As the many sticklers for spelling, punctuation, and grammar who read this site are fond of pointing out.
Perhaps you haven’t been properly introduced to Kitty:
As you have so astutely observed, Kitty appears to god blood all over it, as though it wasnt cleaned to well. We have no idea why this is the case, because Kitty was something of a stray and we know little of its history.
Shortly after The Squirrelly’s second birthday, my cousin K. brought over a box of her old stuffed animals, which had sat in her parent’s garage for years. “Thanks,” we said, “but don’t feel bad if he doesn’t take to any of them. He’s never shown an interest in stuffed animals.” Still, after she opened the box, The Squirrelly obligingly sauntered over to it, folded himself in half, and mooned us as he buried his head and torso in the toys. Duckies and bunnies went flying over his shoulders as he rummaged around.
Then, suddenly, he straightened, holding an toy I’d describe as “looking like something the cat dragged in” if cats made a habit of dragging in cats. Scraggly, lacking a nose, and with inexplicably red-tinged fur, it was the stuffed animal you’d expect to find forlornly standing against the wall after all the others were picked for kick-ball.
“Kitty!!” The Squirrelly announced.
We asked K. how Kitty had come to be in such a sorry state, but she confessed ignorance, admitting that she had never been very fond of the toy and barely remembered it at all. But Kitty and The Squirrelly have been thick as thieves ever since.
How on earth could anyone get attached to such an unattractive specimen, you may wonder. As is usual in these case, it can be summed up in two words: rebound romance.
Kitty fills the void left by The Squirrelly’s One True Love, Mia. Mia was a curly red-headed toddler that attended The Squirrelly’s music class, around the time he was 20 months. While all the other children sat quietly in a circle, listening to the teachers play guitar or sing “Shoo Fly,” Squirrelly and Mia would wile away the hour galumphing around the room like a pack of hyenas, exploring every nook and cranny and upending plastic bins of tambourines.
I distinctly remember the moment The Squirrelly fell in love. Each child and each parent had been given a resonator bell — you know, a wooden block with a single xylophone key on top of it? — and a mallet.
The Squirrelly went to town on his bell, walloping it with as much gusto as he could muster, determined to be the loudest in the classroom. Mia, meanwhile, sat across from us, looking serenely from her bell to her mother’s, clearly cooking up a plan. After a few moments she decided upon a course of action. She picked up her bell in one little hand, seized her mother’s bell in the other, held them such that the keys faced each other, and clapped them together like blackboard erasers. The result was cacophony; The Squirrelly immediately stopped what he was doing to watch the spectacle, as pink and red hearts floated out of the top of his head.
Alas, the class ended a few months later, at that was the last we saw of Mia. It was shortly thereafter that The Squirrelly hooked up with Kitty.
We all know that Kitty is just a place holder, until The Squirrelly again meets a woman more adept at making a godawful racket than he. Until that day, though, they are all but inseparable.