I stopped off at McDonald’s on the way to the gym tonight, Reader, and that’s why I now have eleventy-thousand cats.
What’s that, you say?
You heard me.
Let’s break down what went into that whole sentence.
First, in the interest of LOSING WEIGHT, I decided it just makes good sense to stop and get something from McDonald’s after work, when I’m heading directly to the gym.
I know, who am I? It’s like you don’t even know me anymore. I don’t know me, either, but apparently I’ve become the Girl Who Goes To the Gym After Work AND ON HER BIRTHDAY. Because I totally went to the gym my entire birthday weekend and did a lot lot lot of things, and by the way, does anyone else’s mulva* hurt from exercise bike riding?? That dern seat really wedges up on my left side and I fear it’s bruised. Ladies, do not even tell me if you’ve never experienced that and you’re going to try to blame it on my having an extra fat mulva area. That is the rudest of rudes, so keep it to yourself, and p.s., most of you have never even seen my mulva so you’re not allowed to base your facts on one ouchy stationary bike seat.
Geez, trying to keep you on track, Reader, is almost impossible.
It makes sense to stop and get a small something from McDonalds because then I can burn off all those calories right away, instead of coming home and trying to whip up dinner at 9 or 9:30 at night, which is about the time I get home if I go to the gym after work.
So now you see how stopping at McDonalds on the way to the gym is all part of my master weight loss plan. I should really write a diet and exercise book, and if I do I will address the ouchy mulva situation and also figure out how to keep my butt crack from hurting on that damn bike, too. Whole separate issue, stop sidetracking me.
Now we’re up to the part where I now am the mama to eleventy-thousand cats.
On the turn-in to the McDonald’s, which is also the entrance to the big Walmart, there is a little street that goes to no where, which is kinda common in Florida because it’s built by wack-a-doos down here, apparently.
Well, on that turn in, I noticed some random cats sitting around on the little street to nowhere and I pondered, “Hm, I wonder where they live, there’s no houses around here.”
And then I went AHA! FEREL CAT COLONY!
Florida has a lot of those, too.
And THEN I thought, “Oh, fuck-a-duck, now what are you going to do, you know they’re probably pretty dern hungry.”
My first thought is always to feed things.
So I bought them some chicken McNuggets and a Quarter Pounder with Cheese and Good Lawd, where they happy to see me once they realized I came bearing gifts.
There was somewhere in the cat neighborhood of eight to twelve of them, and that white one appeared to really want to trust The Girl With McNuggets, but couldn’t, which is a good thing they all skittered when I got too close because I don’t think my landlord or Kitty Purry would be too into my bringing home ten or eleven additional house guests, no matter how
flea-bitten soft and furry they were.
And that’s why I will be driving around with a 40 lb. bag of cat food in my car. Because it takes a village – or one compassionate cat lady – to feed a colony of felines.
*mulva. because Seinfeld: