Cat: Rabbits made her mental
This is Molly. She is my pet cat, and you couldn’t ask for a lovlier, fluffier little companion. Sweet, isn’t she? But look again. Look at her face. She has a dark, dark secret. She has issues. If Sigmund Freud was alive today and could talk to cats, he’d have a field day. OK, so she never knew her father and her mother's an alley cat, but give a kitty an even break, eh? But the truth is simple: LESBIAN RABBITS TURNED MY CAT MENTAL.
Molly is two years old. When we got her as an ickle fluffy little kitten we also had an ickle fluffy little rabbit. Called Wiggles. Thanks to a misprint by the Rabbit Insurance office, she became known as Wigless. Wigless was a girl rabbit. We knew this because a) she hasn't got a Johnson, and b) she's since had ickle fluffy baby rabbits. She was cute and had one floppy ear. And come to think of it, big brown "get it here, you fluffy ball of rabbity sex" eyes. Which should have been a warning. Evil lurked inside that ickle fluffy rabbit mind.
Wigs lived in a rabbit run. It was lovely when I built it, but after repeated escape attempts and Keystone Cops chases up the road, it resembled a cross between Stalag Luft 17 and the Battle of the Somme, complete with wire buried to a depth of three feet and a watchtower. She craved company, so it was only natural that we should put ickle fluffy Molly in with her to play.
It was so cute. They sniffed around each other. "Meow" said Molly. "Honk honk honk" when Wigs in the time-honoured fashion of rabbits the world over.
"Meow"
"Honk honk"
"Meow" "Honk" "Meow" "Honk"
It was so cute. We watched for a while as the new playmates gamboled playfully in the rabbit run. Words cannot describe the sheer fluffy beauty of the scene. But evil was to rear its ugly head. Evil with long, floppy ears and a bushy tail.
Seconds after we retired from this peaceful vista we heard a "meow". Then "Meow". And a louder "MEOW". Followed by a pained "MEOW". Surely these two fluffy playmates hadn't fallen out? Surely they weren't fighting over the little sparkly rubber ball with the bell in it? Far from it. It was far, far worse than we imagined. Wigs was on top. And there is no other way of putting it. She was humping the hell out of Molly, and with every demented rabbity thrust came a pained "MEOW!" as Moll was lunged deeper into the muddy quagmire.
It was no good. I was paralysed with laughter. Not even Mrs Scary's cries of "Don't just stand there, hit her with the yard broom" could save me. In the end, I managed to crawl up to the run and pull her off, tears running down my face. Whereupon she tried to hump my arm, the filthy little thing. She was at it like...err... rabbits and nothing was going to stop her.
In the days that followed she tried to hump anything, including her own hutch. We blamed the phases of the moon, those long lonely nights, her all-rabbit food diet, and nothing we did could stop her. So, in the end, we gave her an old soccer ball, and she soon grew to love it like a special friend. Morning, noon and night.
"Daddy, what's Wigs doing to that football?" the Scaryducklings would ask.
She had to go.
Molly, on the other hand looked like a tiny lion skin rug. We peeled her up out of the mud, and she slunk off to the shed and hid under a bucket, and has lived there ever since. We take her food and keep her warm, but she's not the same cat and is scared of anything bigger than a bug. She's a mental case, and I blame filthy, filthy lesbian rabbits. They must be stopped. The War on Sex-case Bunnies starts here.
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