Lee Gunnell is a writer/author from London who enjoys writing about a philosophical mixture of animals, pop culture, and positive thinking.  Be sure to like Lee’s Facebook Page.

 

“Written by Pudding the Cat: December 1st, 2013.”
My name is Pudding. Well, actually my full title is Her Royal Pudding Sausage Majesty; butpudding-2013-12-04_23.05.16 you don’t have to bow at this moment. I am a fourty-year-old tabby cat (six in hooman years) who owns a lovely bungalow in Henley-on-Thames in Surrey, England. Besides being awesome in every way imaginable, I live a generally normal life as a God amongst felines. I meditate eighteen hours a day, preen myself for another two, and with the minimal space in-between, my loyal minions Mummy and Daddy cater to my every service need; including food, warmth, and indefinite attentions. The odd neighbourhood woofington tells me I give little in return to my employees, but I quickly set them straight – my life’s work is to appear beautiful and be amazing; and nobody works it quite like the Pudding.

There is another member of my household, who I allow to sleep in my kitchen; and sometimes sit on the sofa, if I am feeling especially generous. His name is Potato, the Pug. Potato arrived here early this year as a tiny ball of stupidity, and I kept him because his belly makes quite an adequate pillow. Potato is like all woofingtons; slobbery, forgetful, and when he isn’t eating, farting – or concurrently doing both, snoring loud in his stinky bed. I should kick him out, but he does carry a few choice benefits; namely when the Pudding needs her dirty work doing, which Mummy and Daddy are too foolish to understand; like borrowing cookies, or popping out a naughty revenge poo in next door’s garden. We are in many ways a modern day Catgirl and Robin; if Catgirl were smarter, and Robin had a pea for a brain, that is. Right now however, Potato may be more useful then he has ever been…

You see, hooman sky flakes month has arrived; a time where they eat endless collections of chocolate noms, half-pint of milk sized versions of Daddy invade my property; moving all the intricate cardboard boxes I carefully set up for myself, and the same jingly jangles are played ad-nauseum through the chatterbox box. Of course, I can handle all these minor asides; my real problem is much, much larger. As happens every year on the first morning of this month, the green prickle monster has magically appeared in my living room – along with his vast army of decoration soldiers. Like the previous five years, he guards the special, prized present in the corner of the room; which ceiling cat has presented me as my annual award, for most glamorous cat in the universe.  Continue Reading…