c a t
In loving memory of
May 5, 1981 - Nov. 7, 2000
If Your Feet Ain't Worth A Lick, You Best Keep Walkin'
Hi, my name is Deuce. I own a person named Susan. I just turned 19, but you wouldn't know it to look at me. I still sprint rather than walk and have muscle tone that would put Arnold Schwartzenegger to shame. What's my secret for staying so youthful? It's simple: have fun and avoid stress.

Throughout my life, I've kept to a daily regimen of eating, playing, napping, grooming, snacking, meditating, sleeping, being adored, frolicking, dining, and snoozing--at my leisure, of course. Work? Out of the question!  My feline friends and I agree that self-indulgence is the key to contentment. Most canines and humans have a hard time understanding the guiltless life. Their inhibitions prevent them from experiencing little oddities that bring pure bliss. One of my favorite pastimes, feet feasting, is a purrfect example.

Feet . . . ahhh, I love 'em. Bare, stocking, shoed, clean, dirty, wet, dry--their soles call to me.

I cannot refrain from grabbing, smelling, licking, and rubbing against 'em. The mere sight of a foot stepping out of the shower sends me into a frenzy. Pads marinated with lotion are prized above all!

There is also a practical side to my fetish. It's a no-fail way to judge character. You can tell a lot about people by their reaction to a prickly tongue and furry face touching their tootsies! Are they tickled, stunned, amused, pleased, insulted, annoyed? Their demeanor reveals psychological factors that years of "normal"  interaction may never detect.

What does Susan think about all this?  Let's just say, if I ain't sweet for your feet you won't tread here.
In loving memory of
Oct. 31, 1984 - Feb. 8, 2001
The Great Cupcake Caper
Hello, I'm Samsara, but everyone calls me Sam. I'm Susan's "baby" because she's known me since I could fit in the palm of her hand. She'll tell you this with her hand held out, palm up, as if I'm sitting there. (Humans are so strange.)  I'm nearly 16 and a bit arthritic, so not quite as agile as I use to be. There was a time, though, when I could go anywhere and get anything I wanted. One of my favorite exploits was the "Great Cupcake Caper."

To understand the motivation behind this escapade, you need to know that I don't care much for rutabaga or cheap tuna, but I nearly drool like a dog for cake! Susan doesn't let me have it often, so I never pass up a chance to grab my favorite treat. Thus, the "Great Cupcake Caper" began one evening many years ago . . .

I was lounging in a dining room chair as my obedient mistress  made her way to the kitchen. Within seconds I was mesmerized. My heart filled with love as I watched my well-trained companion mix, stir, and pour rich yellow batter into little cups just for me! As they baked, I inhaled the sweet aroma until I was nearly mad with anticipation. Well, imagine my surprise when she removed the golden treasures from the oven, placed them one by one on paper towels, then headed toward the hallway. I called out to her, "Hey, where's my cupcake"?  She just rubbed my chin and told me they were not for me. What? Not for moi?

Through slits, I watched her disappear down the hall. The delectable smell triggered a devious thought. My eyes, now gold and round as the sweet treasures, were intent on a mission. With stealth and no thought of consequence, I was out of the chair and onto the counter. I paused a moment to listen. Was I busted? Nope, the cupcake coast was clear. I smirked and proceeded to the golden booty. Foregoing my usual caution, I bit into the closest cupcake. Sweet anticipation was usurped by trauma! More shocked than pained by unexpected warmth, I let the prize drop from my mouth. It rolled across the floor and under the cabinet. (Wouldn't be discovered for days.) Realizing I hadn't been burned, I started to select another when I heard footsteps.

She covered the cupcakes unaware of what had just transpired. (I was back in the chair feigning boredom.) She picked me up, rubbed my ears, and told me I was a good boy. Oh, yeah, she didn't have a clue how good!

The next morning she dressed the cupcakes with gooey frosting. I knew from listening to her telephone conversation that she was taking them to work. Baking my favorite treats for strangers-boy, was I peeved! Lucky for her, I'd have one more chance to claim what was rightfully mine.

Biding my time, I forced myself to bask in the sun and pretend to nap. My eyes popped open as soon as I heard the shower running. It was now or never. I trotted to the kitchen, leapt onto the counter, and, without  hesitation, I bit into a cupcake. Holding it firmly, I jumped down, dashed behind the sofa, and devoured my sweet prize.

Sated and quite pleased with myself, I lounged on my back in the middle of the living room floor to allow my belly freedom to expand. I heard her pack up the rest of the cupcakes and gather her belongings. She'd be out the door any second. Purring blissfully,  I was dozing off when I heard her ask, "Sam, is that frosting on you whiskers"?
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