We have a cat. It's black, the tip of its tail is white, and it has huge green eyes. I was outside, smoking and eating a sub from Subway and a stray cat (who I've seen before) walked by. I wanted its attention, so I faked a smile and held my food out. It was reluctant at first, but it ended up coming over. I put my food on the sidewalk and it ate it. I lit up a new cigarette and stared at the creature. I thought, wow, I could burn this cat. So, I took the cigarette out of my mouth and lowered it down.
Then I heard, "What are you doing?" It was Frank. "Don't hurt the cat. Jesus Christ." We watched the cat eat. Once it was done, it rubbed against our legs. Frank took a real liking to it and played with it. It was an okay cat in my mind. I had seen it plenty of times and it responded well to human interaction.
"Can we keep him?"
I looked down and nodded, not thinking of course. Ultimately we got a vet appointment set up for the next day.
We had to think of a name. I suggested Salem, Brian, Kok, and Kurt Cocaine. Frank shook his head in disgust. Apparently my names are "stupid like my fagface." Then he said, "Kitty Catdust." If you're an uncultured cranberry fucknut, you wouldn't understand that the name is based off of Ziggy Stardust. According to Frank, the cat needs a middle name (He is too precious for this world).
The cat's middle name is Chapo. Oh, don't act surprised.
The cat is healthy. It's a boy, but I don't respect animals enough to use gender pronouns. It's an it.
Frank loves the cat and the cat loves him. I'm okay with the cat and the cat's okay with me. It's chill and mysterious.
You wasted your time. All I needed to say is that I have a cat named Kitty Catdust Chapo Wayneson.