Today was Day Three of sleeping like a “normal” person, although The Stevo is anything but normal. I awoke ravenous, wanting bacon and eggs. Both were in my larder, ready to be tossed into the wok and served with two thick slices of bread slathered in New Zealand butter.
The masked civet in my kitchen prevented the cooking of, and feasting upon, of the previously mentioned breakfast items. Yes, a wild cat, inside a burlap bag, still sat on my kitchen floor. The civet, best known as the animal responsible for the SARS epidemic (or pandemic) in 2003, prevented me from preparing breakfast. Last night it kept me from the fridge and frosty, malty beverage.
Why, Stevo, is there a feral animal in your kitchen? Is this unusual?
No, not unusual. This is the life I chose, or rather the life that chose me (thank you Jay-Z for the apt description). My existence is a collection of amusing, frightening, and like this one, inexplicable tales. Wait and see.
Alrighty Stevo, you win. A truly wild feral cat in a bag trumps my domestic feral cat living in my couch. I can’t wait to hear how this turns out.
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I can’t wait either. You’ve successfully piqued my curiosity, and I am a very curious creature.
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If I saw that creature in my kitchen I’d shit myself. If I caught it eating my bacon and drinking my beer I’d be wearing it as a stole.
OK, no I wouldn’t, I’m kind to animals. But still, that’s not right.
What’s New Zealand butter?
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No one else is going to ask the obvious, so I will. If it’s in a bag how is it keeping you out of the kitchen, and do you plan to let it out at some point?
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I think it’s a new diet. The feral wild cat keeps you from eating. It’s still in the bag so as soon as you lose the number of pouns you want, poof it goes!
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