One of the things I love most about Bubble is how much she hates mornings. Every morning when we wake up, she is the last to get out of bed. She pops her head out from under the covers, groans and looks at me like, “You have got to be kidding me.”
Our cats (Mr. Lacroix on the left and Saffy on the right) always look like they are either guilty of something, like they are looking at the dumbest human ever or like they are about to use their back claws to murder me in my sleep for not giving them the right flavor of canned food.
In an interesting bit of history, even though we’re pretty sure Lacroix is gay, he loves boobs. He felt me up before my girlfriend did. Every time I tried to move away, his pervy paws came back. I love him anyway.
We adopted Marshall when he was nine months old. He was a scrawny little thing with scabs all over him and a really (really) bad bladder.
The first day we had him, we fell asleep on the couch and he peed all over my girlfriend. That’s how we became his.
I can’t speak highly enough about the Chicago French Bulldog Rescue, who took him in, got him checked out by the vet and let us foster him first to make sure he’d get along with our main homegirl, Bubble.
They started out a little rough – he wanted to cuddle her, she wanted nothing to do with him, but now she gets pissed off if he doesn’t play with her.
He is the biggest snuggler in the world and we think he’s convinced he’s a human since he insists on using a pillow to put his head on at night and likes to be the big spoon while we sleep.
Best. Purchase. Ever.