So Sagittarius. So me. {{popup goat.jpg goat 320×240}}Lajitas Beer Drinking Goat in the news. And always a Star Trek favorite.
“Cat duty” is usually a good gig. You know, pick the cat up, run by the vet’s place, get him a shot, buzz on back and drop the cat off. The deal is, this cat is one smart feller. I checked on him, he was stretched out on the bed. I get the carrier out, and he’s still lying there, taking life easy. It’s a waterbed; he has claws. I pick him up, and as soon I set him down in front of the cat carrier, he starts to struggle a little. I did eventually lift him into that carrier, but not before he let me know that he wasn’t pleased by my display of power – he pissed on me.
The evening duty was a little better, I checked, he was still languorously stretched out on the bed, as only a cat can be, and I got the carrier ready. As soon as I opened the cage’s door, though, that cat bolted. I moved the couch out so I could grab him and he hopped up on the bed again. Got him. The evening grab was a lot easier, he got his shot, and the world is okay. I passed the cat’s keeper, as she pulled in just as I was leaving.
“What are you doing here?”
“The cat.”
“But I’m back.”
“Really? You didn’t call, you didn’t leave a message, what time in the morning to drop off the car?”