My name is Toot. My dad is letting me write in this blog because he loves me and knows I’m a super-smart cat.
Dad adopted me about 14 dog-years ago (2 years, for you two-leggers). The lady who had me before was super nice, but she had other cats who didn’t want me to be in charge. Idiots. Those dopes didn’t appreciate my superiority, they just were scaredy cats (haha). She called me “Phoebe,” but Dad calls me “Toot” (or “Tooters”) because of how I talk. It’s not because of my intestinal production. I am an exceptionally good smelling cat.
I like boxes.
I like to eat, and I have to remind Dad to feed me often.
More than anything, I like being on laps. Dad’s got a great lap (but there\’s a computer on it too often). Dad’s Beth has a super comfortable lap. She’s nice. No computers on her lap.
I bonk ping pong balls around the house. They get under furniture and Dad curses when he has to get them. Baby.
Anyway, it\’s nice to be here and I hope I bring the intelligence of the conversation on this blog up a few notches. I am pretty special, so that should be easy.