I am terribly sorry I have not written to you in a few days. I've been really busy laying on the couch and watching Netflix. I guess I'm just not feeling you right now--but it's not about you, it's about me.
Gus has gotten so big that I fully expect to wake up one morning to him sprawled across half the bed like a Bengal tiger. Seriously, when you stretch him out like an accordion, he's nearly five feet long. Not kidding.
But back when he was a lad I had a different idea of how he might turn out. When I first rescued him from feline skid row, he had a certain expression that I could only describe as well, German. You see what I mean:
When you look at this picture don't you just need to say, jah Mein Herr? I know! Thus, his nickname became Gussel von Bissel. Eventually, this was shortened to von B, and now he's just called "B." See how lazy I am? Anyway because of his obvious German attributes I assigned all kinds of personality characteristics to him which were terribly stereotypical: exacting, punctual, precise except during Oktoberfest when all bets would surely be off.
As with most stereotypes this turned out to be totally wrong. Gus is a spazzy dork, a bull in a china shop possessing none of the grace cats of all ethnicities should. He's loud, messy, naughty, often a bully to his sister and yet a big baby when going to the vet or hearing loud noises. His deafening purr--especially between the hours of five and six in the morning--is not at all how you imagine the engine of a finely tuned Mercedes as it glides down the Autobahn. And yet:
I love the little bastard.
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