This morning, when the sun was pouring in through the giant double windows in my room, Zelda Fitzgerald (née Sayre), Maxwell Perkins, and Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin were all present and dozing on my bed. (The cats, of course. I don’t sleep with dead literary figures on Tuesdays.) And as they lay there, I kept thinking about how adorable sleeping cats are. I mean, look at this picture:
So as I lay there admiring all three of them, guess what that darling cat above starts to do?
If you guessed “lick his butt,” you are the proud winner of a non-existent-but-still-very-awesome prize.
And I averted my eyes and told the two other cats that Maxwell Perkins most certainly was not living up to his namesake, because this Maxwell Perkins . . .
. . . would never ever do that in public or even in private.
I guess what I’m trying to say is: Animals can be pretty gross, sometimes.