Puss n' Toots

Atticus does not like camping. I'm not surprised, since he's a cat, but he throws such a fit when we leave him that he acts like he's going to commit kit-icide. Or, at the very least, homicide when we get home. If it ever comes to that, I am certain it will be a slow and painful death, based on the way he treats mice, lizards and all other now-tailess creatures that live near our house.

To demonstrate his dislike, he commenced to farting right after we began our trip. This may be due to nerves, but is more likely that fact that R fed him Cheetos from Subway. The cat seemed to really love Cheetos. We all love Cheetos. Second only to bacon, it is the food of the Gods. There's nothing better than the lingering effects of orange Doodle Dust and the salty sweet smell. But the sad fact is the puffy perfect little treats don't smell nearly as yummy when the residuals are coming from the back end of a kitten, no matter how cute that kitten is.
The only consolation is, that before he unloaded each Cheeto bomb, he would climb over on R's lap and let'r rip. Is this a male bonding thing?

I worried about his reaction to the cattle, since his favorite prey at the house is the dog and the big honking herd of white-tailed deer that meander around the driveway. I could just see the bull flinging his orange and white kitty butt across the fence.

It was a moot point, however, as the mere sound of the bawling cattle sent him into fits of Cheeto farts, and caused him to streak under the bed, yowling and growling until R lured him out with, what else? Cheetos . . .