He always does this to me, you guys.
Somehow, Ben Franklin has a way of physically subduing me, forcing me to comfort and caress him despite his aloof, uncaring demeanor. I don’t know why I submit to his demands, but I do.
I always, always do.
I am invariably left feeling taken advantage of as he trots away to lick his ample groin. Afterwards I lingered on the couch, matted in cat hair and sobbing uncontrollably for 30 grief-wracked minutes.
Is there some hotline I can call if I’ve been emotionally abused by my cat, or have Tim Pawlenty’s heartless budget cuts eliminated such programs?