The cat came back - not the very next day.
The cat came back - fer shur she was a goner!
My world is complete. I have my pussy. Of course, she'll probably need a rabies shot, a nice, warm bath with a lice shampoo, and in a few weeks, we can expect the arrival of quintuplet pussies in our humble abode. But, DAYEM, was I happy to see her, even if she is a whore!
After ten days of searching the neighborhood, checking every gutter for a decomposing mass of fur, calling and calling at all hours of the day and night, the demon kitty has decided that maybe the grass isn't so green on the other side of the door. Either that, or like any other fickle feline on the planet, she grew tired of her muse and ditched him. Poor bastard!
Or, is he the lucky one? From the little I know about the male species, I assume a ten-day sex fest with no strings attached is ideal. Sure, there would be some chafing, but that's nothing that some lotion and a few days of rest wouldn't cure. I'm sure, where ever he is, his chest is filled with pride, knowing that he has ensured his immortality through the spread of his genes. There must be a certain smugness to his Cheshire Cat grin with the recognition that he is in no way legally bound to my pussy. No midnight feedings, no lengthy talks about his feelings, no monthly support payments. His obligations in life remain the same - sleep, eat, sleep, shit, sleep and procreate. Then, perhaps a nap before he repeats the process.
I'm convinced. When I die, I'm coming back as a male cat.
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