*GRINS* Indeed. Managing to not lose a hand while picking the furruit is part of the problem... unless ...the furruit wants to be picked or, in the case of Meep's story comments below, the furruit picks you.
Every damn Friday. How the hell does a cat know which day it is? Every other day he walked under the tree to a barrage of purring, a loud 'here I am' purring from the large tom with it's bent forearms resting on a branch, it's white belly all fluffed up and the biggest smirk possible for a feline. His friends added chorus. But Friday was a different story.
Fridays were when the cat pounced. Luke would be passing under the tree and a heavy furry lump would fall onto him, followed by scrambling legs and an obnoxious purr
( ... )
That Friday when the cat unerringly dropped from the tree Luke decided to speak to it, there was no-one around to lock him up. 'One - I thought cats were meant to be graceful, you drop down like a lead balloon, a molting lead balloon. Two - If you're really some extra special precious little flower how about you zap to human and let me see huh? Wouldn't that be easier
( ... )
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How the hell does a cat know which day it is?
Every other day he walked under the tree to a barrage of purring, a loud 'here I am' purring from the large tom with it's bent forearms resting on a branch, it's white belly all fluffed up and the biggest smirk possible for a feline. His friends added chorus.
But Friday was a different story.
...
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