Cats
Any of you who know me will attest to the fact that I can't stand cats.
Any of you who know me will attest to the fact that I can't stand cats.
There will be the deluded among you who evoke images of me shedding tears at the demise of the cat of the hour – Delphi, Chester, Rocky I, Rocky II, Rocky III, but those tears were the result of the guilt I felt remembering how poorly I treated them – the times I rolled over in bed and disturbed their deep slumber on the top of my chest, or selfishly shifted my position on the couch after hours of staying motionless, interrupting their serene repose on my lap.
I would also remind you that I cry at every episode of American Idol.
Every single restaurant in Greece has at least one resident cat. No one seems to mind. They have the run of the place. People feed them from their plates, and the servers just step around them, or wait patiently for them to move.
You have already learned of Sweet Lorraine's sense of humour, hiding my things so that I cannot find them.
She has now learned Cat Greek.
There can be fifty patrons dining, and she can entice the cats to come to my table and meow pitifully at me throughout the whole meal.
I ignored them, but to no avail. They will only leave me alone after they have had their fill.
I now order an extra fish at every meal.
I now order an extra fish at every meal.
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