Mr. Z has walked on the keyboard, insisting that I pay attention to him and not the vile computer. His mad seduction skillz extend to gay men as well, entrancing them as he shows them the Rich Corinthian Leather of his metaphorical Chrysler LeBaron. I’m not surprised. I’ve always imagined him as the cat equivalent of an old-school “confirmed bachelor” (you know, the kind that prefers musical theater), complaining that the children are touching his antiques and actually walking on his prized Aubussons. ("Doris! Do something! Make them stop! Mao! Mao!")
I better curl up with my ancient eunuch companion and keep him warm before he flicks the g key off the keyboard again and sends weird emails god-knows-where.