He calls me, "The Big Blue Thing that lives on a flat rock next to a big box that dumps people out." Because I guess "Chevrolet" is just too complicated.
Grumpy Tom sits on my hood, cleans his paws, and hisses at things. He hisses when people try pet him. He hisses when Old Man Francis across the road comes out in just his boxers. I'm pretty sure he once even hissed at his own tail when it wrapped around his feet for warmth, and he decided it had invaded his personal bubble. Goon.
His butt puckers when he hisses, too. I'm seriously not comfortable with that, which is why I want to get rid of him.
Okay, that's not the only reason, but it's a good reason. The other reason is because he lies to me.
"I'm a gunslinger," he said one day in between licking his paw and vigorously swirling it around his ear.
"You are not," I said. "You're a cat. A stray cat with a puckery butt. Quit it."
His eyes narrowed, and in the distance I thought I heard the wind pick up. I didn't mention this to him, because, well, you know what it does to him and it's just icky. His gums pulled back to expose little, feral teeth as he said, "I'm a gunslinger and you need me. I'll show you why tonight."
Grumpy Tom padded to the edge of my hood and dropped out of sight. I didn't see him again for three hours.
-- Grumpy Tom Part 2 will be posted tomorrow...
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