That's Baloney

Today I tried to make a bologna sandwich.

 You wouldn’t think it would be so hard.

Ingredients: bread, mayo, bologna, cheese, kitten

Wait. What?

These days, there’s a sweet, new, innocent face in the house, which makes everything else just a little bit more difficult.

If not impossible.

Sweep the hardwoods? It goes like this: sweep, remove kitten. Sweep, remove kitten.  Looks like if they can make stain remover that gets out Gorilla Glue, they could find a product to remove a three pound ball of fluff from the broom.  Meanwhile, she’s riding the dustmop like it’s the Scrambler.

Do the laundry?  I have to check every load I put in the washer, to make sure she’s not swinging like a trapeze artist from someone’s underpants.  And I’m pretty sure that in her case fabric softener would be overkill.  Of all her mighty 3.2 pounds, three pounds is fur.

The rest is claws.

Don’t even think of putting up the blinds, mixing up a cake, or feeding the Labradors.

The Labradors think she’s Satan.

Does anybody else smell brimstone?

I suggested we name her Stop That, because we say it so often these days, but it turns out she doesn’t respond anyway, so I gave up.

But back to the point. I tried to make a bologna sandwich. After removing the kitten from the table, the bread wrapper, the bologna package, and the cheese slice, I removed the peel from around the bologna from the kitten, and locked her in another room with a kitty snack.

Remember that commercial that says, “My bologna has a first name.” I think the kitten does too.

And I think the Labradors are on to something.