Mark wrote:He got hit by a car in 1970.
A potty-trained cat, there's a first...
Ex lived right by the highway when we were together. But she took Pissy-Cat outside once a year, and it would hide behind a rock and cry till she took it back in. I must admit to wishing more than once that it had been the adventurous type

ANCFlyer wrote:Never got rid of those little shits until my first wife succumbed to cancer in 1988.
Pissy-Cat
set itself on fire once and I
still didn't manage to get rid of it. Dumb bastard jumped up onto the kitchen table during dinner (ugh! I don't need your crusty pencil-sharpener in my face!), and was instantly intrigued by a candle. Sniffed, burned its nose, jumped back, burned its ass on the other candle, and started haring around the flat like its tail was on fire. Because it was. At the time, Ex liked chaos even more than she liked cats, so random tissues and bits of newspaper caught alight all over the place as clumps of tail- and ass-hair burned through and fell on them. She panicked, so I had to chase around the place stamping out small fires until I could corner the animal and - having rapidly calculated the probability of getting any ever again if I didn't - finally throw my beer over it.
After that, I tried convincing her that its coat would be lovely and silky if she rubbed Vaseline into it three times a day, but she didn't fall for it

Kind of sad the old bastard's gone, I have to say. Rest in piss, ya filthy animal.
My friend and I applied for airline jobs in Australia, but they didn't Qantas.