It’s Not Easy Being Orange

As a non-fur species, have you ever wanted to fade into your surroundings? Let me tell you, when you’re fat and orange and furry, you can’t hide anywhere. You’re too fat to get all the way under the bed. The couch downstairs doesn’t work either because of the pesky size issue.

JB doesn’t understand that sometimes I just want to be alone. I don’t want her to bother me. No petting, no scratching, no playing, no purring, just no touching.

Why do humans get a kick out of trying to touch a cat’s stomach? After all these years of being warned about the right places to pet a cat and there they go, everytime, right to the gullet.

I know my stomach is soft, and round and squishy but I am not the Pillsbury Doughboy! I don’t giggle when poked there.

It’s just not easy being HC sometimes. I’m low to the ground, can’t get up on the refrigerator or countertops anymore and the days of wandering around on the basement rafters are just fond memories of my skinnier youth.

Oh the things I used to be able to do. I’d jump up on the highest perches, posing regally like a great beast of the wild.

I’m not complaining though. I know I have it made. Three squares a day (okay, I’m not counting snacks), a nice bed to sleep in, plenty of toys, sunshine on the porch, birds to watch and water to drink.

But every so often I get that itch that just can’t be scratched. The itch to run away, break free and roam like the wild cat I once was.

I guess that’s why JB leaves me sometimes when she packs that suitcase; she has to scratch her itch.

No, it’s not easy being orange. I wasn’t born to blend in. I’m too much of a hip chick for that. Besides, there’s too much fire in my belly to ever want to anyway.

Signed,

The HC

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This couch just isn’t big enough sometimes.

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