Part Toot of the Story

Just the other day, I posted that The Bat's Basement Cat had decided to bury my gassy ass at bedtime, heaping the blanket over the offending orifice and all that surrounds it. It may not have made you laugh, but it faintly amused me that a cat who didn't even make the effort to bury his own stink felt the need to deal so with mine.

He's done that every night since then. Last night, though, he gave his ritual a twist.

While I was lying on my side, with the Kittygirl under the covers for her ritual conversation and my ceremonial massage of that one spot on my shoulder, The Boy was stretched along my spine, relaxed as he could be. Abruptly, he stood up and started pulling the blanket into a heap by my posterior. I turned my head and got a whiff of something powerful that was not mine, and I knew for a fact had not come from Kittygirl.

In fact, I was afraid The Boy might have had an accident on the bed.

But NOOOOOoooo. Aside from some cat fur, the bed was clean.

Boykitty had just ripped a big one, and blamed me.




The little brat just pulled a Dad-and-the-dog-fart on me.

I hope to God this isn't the start of a trend.