Comic Cat-ass-trophism, or: Mars, Venus, Uranus?

"Right now, animals are crapping in our houses! And we're cleaning it up!! Did we lose a war??" Homer J. Simpson

If you're a "cat person" (and I often wonder if there might be some subtle connection to being a "Mac person"), the following might rub you the wrong way. As a canine-comfortable person who is now a happy and indulgent co-parent of two black kitties - let's call them Shoggoth and Tsathoggua - I share this with nothing but affection.

I'm still weirded out by cat butts.

Not the fact that they have them, per se. (Something about them being like opinions...in that they tend to stink...or something.)

No, more the fact that I have a good chance of being confronted with them at eye level whether I'm lying down, sitting, or even standing. Cats are freaking nimble. If they're as friendly as ours, cats are liable to stroll across the back of the sofa and promenade back and forth by your head to get some attention. Add this to the way they will park themselves anywhere with one leg up and lick their holes after evacuating, and there's just no avoiding it.

Cat ass.

Perhaps, as my dear felinophile wife reminds me, I should be thankful that they're so meticulous cleaning even that end of their anatomy. And that we don't need to take them for a potty run in the middle of a snowstorm. Besides, she insists, "they're soooo cuuute!"

That's as may be.

But that doesn't mean I have to like a purring, fuzzy mini Pit of Sarlac blocking my view when I'm trying to watch "Supernanny."

Meow.