As I continue to enjoy (likely to annoying degrees) the flow that has encompassed my life as of late, I have run up against a small obstacle. And by small, I mean in stature only. I am dealing with seven pounds of loquacious, furry, disdain. I only avoid “rage” as a descriptor because Matilda is too cool to really lose her shit over this; but suffice it to say, the kid is not pleased.
From the freedom of the jungle [cue Born Free] to the malleability of the suburbs, Matil has now found herself an involuntary urbanite. The metaphoric (perhaps literal) feline Rapunzel, she pouts out the window and audibly sighs over her dissatisfaction with all things San Francisco.
So disgruntled these days, she has taken to sitting in her travel crate. While this may not be a bad thing, the reality of it is that in the past I practically had to use a bag and a crowbar to get her tiny self in that thing. Now the only missing element is the dialog bubble above her head saying, “Okay, enough of this shit. Time to GTFO.”