Petsmart

the 'lets-face-it-a-little-bit-frumpy-middle-aged-women' to 'putatively red-blooded american male' ratio in the cat section at Petsmart today was approximately 74.5 to 1, the half being a woman who may have been lost, and looking for ferret food instead. The unspoken camaraderie we were all feeling in the pursuit of just the most darling little nibblies and num-nums for our respective mr. snuggles-es and whiskers-es and socks-es (and Finnegans!) began to manifest in me as a sort of atavistic nausea, as my (undoubtedly) fierce warrior/hunter ancestors announced a genetic protest at this shameful loss of manliness. Indeed it was a harrowing look into my future: a future to be characterized by stringy gray ponytails, raised-texture t-shirts, and an unmistakable feline funk. Best to adapt now though, as later it may be more difficult to adjust to a life of hungry-man frozen dinners and early-evening network television. Still, at least Finnegan now has something other than my box spring to scratch. And he IS just the scratchiest little booger, darn his cute little paws.