aMuSiNG MuSiNG ~ MaGGie & her/my PReCiouS

Jake Gyllenhaal has a scrappy older sis named Maggie. And no different is my Persian, Jake the Cat. Jake's (3-minute older) sister, Maggie is a classic example of the old adage: Don't judge a cat by it's cover...

With her snow-white coat and bright blue eyes, she looks the picture of Persian perfection. But what lies beneath her un-declawed claws is far more sinister. You see, my Maggie suffers from what our (oh-so sexy and oh-so-maybe gay) vet calls "pet species dysphoria". Plainly put, she was born a cat, but she thinks she's a dog. (A pitbull, to be exact.)

Now while Jake is content to sleep all day or have his belly rubbed or be hand fed kitty snacks, Maggie prefers the life in the feline fast lane. She (literally) showers with me until she's soaked to her four-legged bones. Her favorite pussy past times are playing fetch and tug-o-war. She sits on command. She occasionally uses our human toilet (and often has better aim than my BF). And most disturbingly, she nests.

Yes, deep under the bowels of our California King bed, Maggie has a sacred shine to herself, a place that no man (gay, metero or hetero) dare go for fear of malcontented kitty hissing or licking by way of a sandpaper tongue. There, my (un-queenly) snow-white kitten hides her pilfered-from-me goods and worships them as if they were the jewels of King Tut's tomb.

When I clean the condo (OK, fine... when the maid cleans the condo), it is not uncommon for me (OK, fine... the maid) to find things like paperclips, pens, dress socks or even the occasional CD in Maggie's liar. (Just why do pussies love Carrie Underwood so? I'll never know...)

But ala Gollum from Lord of the Rings, lately Maggie has taken to a new precious, that being my iPod mini. It's shiny... It's small... It fits perfectly in her clenched jaw... And she's decided it's hers. Every night, I wrangle it back from MaggieLand and place it back in its rightful computer charger, yet every morning it is, again, gone. This AM was no different.

So, here I sit, getting fatter by the morning minute, unable to go to the gym and Elliptical my love-handles away. You see, I spent 30 minutes in a drunken stupor last night iTunesing the ultimate RockOut/WorkOut mix. Without my ...Baby One More Time beat-box mash-up, there's just no way I can turn off The View and get myself to 24 Hour Fitness.

Damn you, Maggie, for making my lazy ass fat! And damn you, Elizabeth Hasselbeck... just 'cuz!