Bottle Cap

I was born dirt poor on a farm in rural East Tennessee. When I was rescued from the shelter I was taken to an office where I spent the first seven years of my life. Lots of human activities, but since this office housed of a bunch of business consultants they kept the place looking professional. Image was everything. Cat toys scattered everywhere was not the image.

Kitty toys were kept to a minimum. I had to make do. I learned to play with paperclips, staple guns and the occasional fanny on the copier. Not your normal cat toys, but more than I would have had if life kept me on the farm. I'm not complaining, too much.

Goddess feels compelled to remind me of my humble beginnings. One way she does this is to give me "make-do" cat toys. You know, not really cat toys. For instance, here she is giving me and my homie, Phoenix, a bottle cap. Sure they can rattle around on a hardwood floor. Ooooh, exciting (NOT). And they can take off in a shot, which is really oooooh exciting (NOT). But a bottle cap is no substitute for a fluffy felt duck, if you know what I mean.

Have you ever held a bottle cap between your front paws and rubbed your face on it? Cold, hard plastic. It's just not the same as a soft plush chew toy soaked with cat spit. Sink your teeth into that cap and you'll be sitting in the dentist chair come morning.

I oblige her by taking a few tentative pats at the cap(Yawn.) Phoenix will chase it and entertains herself with the stupid thing, but me, I'd rather sit in the window and watch birds. Or run away.