A Case of Mistaken Identity

The writer of this blog claims - as do miraculously her appendage and associates - that she can't wait until spring comes so I can get a decent fur cut, because - as she constantly seems to have to point out - someone might mistaken me for one of these fellows any day now.

I clearly see - or not so clearly, I wouldn't mind a bit of eyebrow trim - no resemblance whatsoever. To neither of Ruffle, Tousle or Goldilocks - although the latter name does have a very pleasant ring in my well shaped ears - or their family.

The well shaped ears who have a well trained tendency to overhear or not hear at all, depending on the advantage the hearing might give me loafie extraordinaire. And as far as these not-at-all-looking-like-me creatures above go, I did overhear the blog writer mention, with just a slightly embarrassed tone in her voice, that one of these days she might be charged with trespassing for with this constant - borderline obsessive if you ask me - urge to get all close and semi-personal with farm animals.

My perfectly adorable ears even heard her mention something about childhood goats, horses, dogs and cows and a grandmother thought of her being abducted while she was oblivion to the outside world only socializing with cats on a hay loft. IMHO she is kind of missing a few hens in the hen house between her far from as adorable as mine ears, but notwithstanding that I sort of dig her anyway.

I like it when she caresses my ears and softly calls me loafie, doggie, hairy meatball, little squirrel - yes I'm a lean, wee fellow who can easily be mistaken for a squirrel - and other corny epithets. And but for her far too seldom giving me green bones and squeaker toys and far too often put me in bathtub, rinse, shampoo and rinse I sort of suspect she rather digs me back.