p***y whipped
John brought a kitten home one day. She was covered in fleas and underweight. Like a P.O.W. he had rescued her from an animal shelter determined he would rid his barracks of its mouse plague for good. Their home was spotless but road works in the new subdivision had eradicated the rodents' habitats and forced them to find new digs. The kitten was pretty with long hair and eyes that looked as though she applied fresh mascara every day. She should have been named Cleopatra. But no. John had a thing about Sophie.
Sophie the cat would sit around on top of lounge suites and rugs and anything she could leave a trail of hair on. She fitted in to their home straight away. She was bi-polar. At least that was what John said. You couldn’t pat her without getting scratched.
