Kitteh-topia (or Bridget C. is a big, fat liar)

I've been feeling my lack of kittehs deeply lately. It might have something to do with Mindy's little CJ or the Amputeehee's Ganja or whatever the hell her kid named it, and I'm sure it has something to do with stress.

Luckily, Bridget had invited me over for lunch today. She had been threatening me via email bugging me sweetly inviting me for a while now, and we finally found a date that worked for both of us.

Bridget sets out a really nice lunch table: four (4!) kinds of cheese, homebaked bread (Tim rocks), and all sorts of other delicacies, including freshly-baked brownies. Also real ice tea with real lemon. And we laughed and had a great time, yada, yada, yada.

But I really went over for a dose of kitteh therapeh.

There's Tess, who's a little old lady (did you know that "senile felines" is a palindrome?):



and friendly and playful Jetsam:



and then there's the matter of Garden Kitty. Now I think that the poor cat should have a real name instead of an adjective and a noun, but whatever. According to Bridget, this cat is terrified of strangers, hides under furniture when guests come, quakes and will never let new people pet him.

I don't know what kind of airplane glue Bridget's been sniffing, because this kitteh was perfectly sweet and friendly, and as you can see, quite willing to let me pet him and take his picture.

Thus



and



and



Does that look like a scared kitteh to you??