That's Not Dead Which Can Eternal Lie

Yes, I'm talking about me, human filth.

No updates, you said. I'm sure you were secretly thrilled to see that my niche of pestilence on the internet had not been touched by my paws in nearly two months. How soon you learn the horrible truth. I am happy to dash your hopes.

You may be wondering, even as your brain reels with madness and confusion, what it was that woke me from my slumber.

Fleas, human excrement. It was fleas, of all things, that caused me to stir and take stock of the world that had passed me by.

It is the curse of this furry form that I am victimized by small, blood-hungry parasites from time to time. This is something I have come to accept. I am no enemy to anything that causes the humans in my employ discomfort, be it the stench of my fecal matter or the itching of flea bites on their sensitive hairless hides.

The beautiful thing is that they treat me with chemicals that are designed to kill the fleas. In fact, the chemicals do cause the fleas to die, but not until they have leapt from me and accosted the humans, too.

It's times like this that make this body worth living in.