Rufus: A Photo Essay.

I know, I know. You're tired of hearing about my cats. This is the last time, I SWEAR. (Although, we both know that's not true.)

This is Rufus. He's what we like to call an attention whore.

See that? I can freely rub his stomach. He's like a dog. Look at his face, he's totally into it. Claws: retracted. I walked away from this situation unscathed.

I could give you the whole back story on Rufus but frankly, it would take too long. And I don't have that kind of time. What with my new "growing blog" status, radio commentaries, and coffee shop readings, well– would you have the time? (Want my autograph?)I will say this, though: it's a story so full of mystery, intrigue, and fancy feast that it would make Truman Capote roll over in his grave.

Did I also mention that Rufus craves attention? Like right here:

Did I tell you about the whole face petting thing? What about the snaggle tooth?

Ah, yes. There it is. The tooth. You can rub it, he's totally into that. And Wilbur's ass. Of course.

THE END.