Love is in the air. The moon and stars are in proper alignment. It's not too hot; it's not too cold.
She sashays through the room, hips swinging seductively, her eyes clearly displaying her best come-hither look. Invitingly, she leans against you, hoping beyond hope for just one caress, one long lazy stroke intended to invoke intimacy. When she speaks, the tone is unquestionably low and sexy, designed to ignite the fires of passion.
She is wanton. She is welcoming. She is every man's dream.
She is not me. She is my cat, and she is undeniably in heat. And she is ceremoniously driving everyone in the house crazy! The title of my post is a statement made by Mike as she writhed and showed off while stretching on a kitchen chair the other morning, trying to attract attention. I couldn't help but laugh.
I innocently suggested letting her "meet" my brother's cat, a handsome white, gray, and orange specimen of a man-cat. Just think of the beautiful babies they'd make together. You see, Roach (yes, that is really her name) is a gorgeous torty. Can't you just see the adorable offspring they could create?
But Mike says no. Hell no. We absolutely, positively DO NOT need anymore cats roaming the premises, beautiful or otherwise.
Rather than design a nursery, I called the vet. Roach will be going in June 2 to be spayed. I'm afraid to admit, if she went through another heat cycle, she'd probably end up dead at the hands of someone in this house. Very likely me.