When I come home the animals are wanting dinner. Each evening of a work day I pull into the driveway and already I can see happy chicken feet dancing against the fence line in anticipation of meal worms, or some other treat.
Naturally, I don't have them on me, so they have to wait a tick before I can retrieve something tasty.
On entering the house I am greeted with a variance of complaints or pleas from the cats Moonkie and Osha. Ruby can barely contain herself with excitement at the prospect of her evening meal, and since the cats are determined NOT to be overtly friendly to the pig, Ruby is also glad to see a friendlier face.
Too small differences this evening.
1) It being a dark and stormy evening, only Hortense, eschewing the company on the warm, dry roosts, danced for me for some treats.
2) As I made my way to the house, Not My Cat bounded forth from parts unknown in my yard to greet me on the porch with the same enthusiasm as the animals that I am *actually* responsible for.
I really don't understand why he seems to always be out in the worst weather. Oh well, no matter old man ... he gets a little dinner too. But. And let me make this perfectly clear. He is still *NOT* my cat!
Waiting for the evening when Ms. Rabbit sidles up to me for the latest gossip as dainty as you please.
A chronicle of my douche bag rooster and the douche bag that owns him.
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