Kitty love

Here in Morocco, when young men get together near a satellite TV, there are only three viewing options that compute in their brains: 1. football (not unlike men in America, only THIS football is the soccer kind. You know, what the REST of the world calls football?) 2. Jackie Chan (or Jean Claude Van Damme in a pinch) 3. Spice Platinum (http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&q=spice+platinum).

Last night the boys were gathered around watching option number 3, and Shan and I were off in her bedroom talkin' girl talk. I went into the kitchen for something, and I heard a cat noise coming from the garden. That unmistakable cat noise that means some boy kitty is gettin' his hole and some girl kitty ain't too happy about it. Y'all know the noise I'm talkin' about. Anyway, my first thought is that Poops finally couldn't take his incarceration any longer and had risked death by jumping from the balcony so he could go visit that cute little calico girl who's always battin' her eyelashes at him from down in the garden. "Where's Poops?" I asked. "Is that him havin' sex in the garden?!!" That would be the WORST thing in the world -- the deflowering of my little boy!

I rushed out to the balcony to find Poops peering down at two loved up kitties down below him. Apparently Poops is a fan of Spice Platinum, too.

Rapt attention