Fuzz Therapy

Once again, the world sucks. Well, I guess not always. I don't know about anyone else, but I can always go for more fuzz therapy.

No matter how bad my day is at work (and it's usually just barely tolerable), I can always count on my fluffy marshmallow butt to greet me (in one of her few moments of consciousness--she loves her naps!). I am wanted. I am the bringer of food. I am the provider of ear-scratches, tummy-tickles, and fake mice. And in return, I get unconditional kitty love. Except when I try to brush her fur. That's when the claws come out, the ears go back, and my adorable kitty turns into a frightening blood-lusting monster.

But she always turns back to her usual cuddly self.