People keep asking…
“How’s it going, without Rhen there?”
I always say, “Oh, it’s fine. I’m good.
I just talk to the cats.”
That is…if they’d wake up.
Sheesh.
The Grip of Death
When you see this picture, you may think, “Awwww. Cute, gentle, little Hobbes is having his neck scratched. Isn’t that just so sweet?”
However, I’d like to draw your attention to those paws…the ones with the death grip around my hand. Turns out, when a 20 pound cat grabs your hand to assure that you don’t stop scratching his neck until HE says you can–on pain of certain death…
you just kinda keep scratching his neck, whether you want to or not…
till the end of time…
or until he falls asleep.
Good grief.
A slave in my own house.
Wise Old Hobbes
Old Mister Hobbes. Such a wise, deep thinking fellow.
So wise, in fact that he understands every….single….word that I say.
Not so wise, however, that he realizes that I don’t understand ANYthing he is EVER saying…or doing, for that matter.
Case in point.
Haha. Hobbes–you are a funny little duck.
We love you.
Playing Opossum
I actually had to check twice to make sure Dali wasn’t….
you know…
dead.
She wasn’t. Just spoofin’ around.
Odd duck.
Speaking of which…
they’re everywhere.
Herrrrre Birdy, Birdy
“THAT, my young Padawan, it the sound of a sparrow on the roof.”
“Really Uncle Hobbes?! When do we get to eat it?”
“Soon, Grasshopper. Soon.”