(no subject)

I am very sorry to say that I have come to the conclusion that, in fact, my father is right. Dogs are smarter than cats. At least my cats. When my dad had his knees buggered up (he's had knee replacement surgery on both knees over the past four years), Travis (the family dog) was always very good. He seemed to sense that something was wrong and made none of his usual efforts to push Dad over or jump up on the bed. He would just walk up to my father, lick his hand, put his head on the bed next to my father's shoulder, and wuff.

My cats, on the other hand, keep trying to climb, sit on, or jump on my bad knee, taking the fact that I'm not moving it much as an invitation to play.

Stupid bastards. Stupid fat bastards, what's more. Ow.

That said -- time for pants. North American pants, not British ones, as I am already wearing the latter.