Ever since the copper market cratered, I've been without a secretary. Clearly, this has been a great loss for me. First, my Ziggy comics no longer sorted by both date and subject. Second, if I emerge from my room at 4 AM and shout, "Soft tacos!", not only do I go taco-less, but my neighbors think I'm a madman. Anyway, as a result, all of my personal paperwork (insurance paperwork, subpeonas, nude pictures of the Austin city council) is in total disarray. This weekend, with taxes and all of that crap approaching, I resolved to get down to business and sort some of that crap out.
Lodged deep inside my folder full of Popeye's receipts, I discovered something interesting: the paperwork I received when I adopted my cat. I learned, for example, that my cat was vaccinated right before I got her. That's good, because she's just getting bitier since I moved her over to an all Hamburger Helper diet. I also learned how old the cat is. I've speculated on this many times before, and come up with an age anywhere between 1.5 (because she wouldn't know a multiplication table if it bit her on the rump) and 74 (because of her love for Andy Griffith). Her actual age, as it turns out, is a little over 3 years.
With this bit of information, I did some research. Apparently, a cat year equals 7 human years; from that, I reason that Octopussy is in her earlier twenties. I gather two things from this. First, I need to start building a dowry in the hopes of marrying her off in the near future. Second, in another year, she'll be older than me and a power struggle will erupt in the apartment. Let me put it in print here: I don't care how old the cat is, she's not putting me on a curfew or an allowance. A litter box maybe, but a man has got to have some dignity.Posted by Cody at February 7, 2005 8:41 PM