Epilogue
BIG PAWS, MY ASS
Hot Stuff
Ahem.
Time to set the record straight. It had come to Hot Stuff’s attention that there were some, should we say, misrepresentations of him?
He’d put up with these erroneous perceptions for long enough. He’d allowed certain parties to believe he was simply, well, like a dog.
Dogs didn’t plan things. Dogs didn’t devise strategies.
But cats? They were thinkers. All that time sleeping was simply a ruse. Cats used those supposedly dreamy hours to plot all sorts of deeds.
And seriously? At this point, couldn’t everyone see what had truly gone down?
Fine, fine. He would have to spell it out. He had excellent ears, and a sharp mind after all. And he’d heard everything . Every single, solitary detail about Mister Sexy Pants.
Every time his human had swept out to the balcony, that device in her hand—her big hand, he might add—he’d listened. He’d heard. And of course, he’d understood.
The woman wanted the man and blah, blah, blah.
But while he wished he was nefarious enough to send emails, alas, he was not. His plotting was more of the what plant to knock over variety. What keyboard to sit on. What mug to bat to the ground.
It was fun when things broke.
He couldn’t help it. He was drawn to machines and to the chance to destroy them. Such was a cat’s life.
In any case, he digressed.
Occupational hazard of being a cat.
The point was this— big paws, my ass .
His paws were fucking fabulous.