I’m happily feeding Zeus, the cat, down the block.
He’s a redhead, big and buff, rugged and tough…strapping, sturdy and oh so sexy–my kinda guy, greeting me at the door with furry swagger, like he’s welcoming me to his bachelor pad.
Did he just meow, “Hey baba,” or did I imagine it?
He then struts to the couch, taking one smooth leap hoping I’ll join him.
He purrs, his paw on my knee, preening, so I get a good look at him.
Is that a can a’ tuna in your pocket, or are ya just happy to see me?
Next thing he does is bunt my head like a football player, so solid…all male, causing me to blush like a maid in her prime.
After a little cat-noodling, I fetch him a treat he knowingly waits for, like a gentleman, as though it were a hot Hor d’oeuvre–a little liver on a Ritz kitty cat?
I swear, if possible, he’d mix me a cocktail.
He’s so urbane, like Clooney, or James Bond with a little TV repairman tossed in.
I know if he were wearing pants, a nice pressed pair, his rear would no doubt crack a smile, winking slyly from across the room.
But unlike Patrick, the cat next door, he never publicly cleans his private parts, preferring to keep them private, the size of cymbals, still in residence.
What a man, I think, what manners, such class–WHAT BALLS!
And he’s single.
I’ll have to tell his mistress when she gets home, we’re dating.