How Not To Milk A Cat By Adam Blakeley

It began, as these things always do, with a meow.

I ignored it, because it seemed plausible that my ears were playing tricks on me. Meows simply do not come from places where meows do not come from, such as my doorstep. Besides, I had important business to tend to. I continued to play Xbox. After a while my wife entered the room.

“Is that a meow?”

I opened the door. Sitting on our doorstep, as if he had been placed there, was an all-white kitten that fit into the palm of my hand.

A few minutes of comfort, some water, and a pinch of food had the little guy in high spirits. We sprang into action creating posters declaring that we had found a cat. He sprang into action chasing around our existing cats. We had three, not including the new guy, but he was most interested in our black and white cat.

Apparently, he decided this cat looked just like his mom. I deduced this because he tried to nurse from the black and white cat named Oscar. Oscar laid back and let the little guy lick on his belly, but he looked at us with an expression that screamed, “what the hell is this cat doing?”

A little thing like biology was not going to stop the kitten. He tried for days to get a drop of milk. It was a remarkable display of determination that proved once and for all that you have just as much chance of getting blood from a stone as you do of getting milk from a male cat.


in Denver, CO

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I am a writer with supreme overconfidence in my rhetorical abilities. I also overestimate my comedic skills and laugh at my own jokes.

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