Why I Can't Do Housework

The answer in three words: Squeaky the Cat.

A disproportionate amount of space on this blog has been devoted to the adorable and occasionally gross Capt. Nap (see: "Poo Paws: Capt. Nap's Cure for Fatigue" and "Thank You for Vomiting, Napoleon").  Today, I will begin to remedy that apparent show of favoritism by devoting an entire post to blaming some stuff on Squeaky.

In fact, I will let pictures tell the story. Below is a collage of our friend Squeaky, which I believe amply illustrates what I'm talking about:

"Want me to move so you can unpack your really important medicine and get it into the fridge? No can do! This is a nice perch!"

"Trying to get some writing done? Fuggetaboutit." (I was later told that, charming as this pose is, it is NOT good for the laptop.  Any damage: Squeaky's fault.)

"Oh, you want to make the bed? Check me out! I'm too cute to move. Plus, I'm warm and comfortable. Begone with you!" 

"Planning to, er, recycle these trashy magazines? Sorry!"

"This trashcan stays RIGHT HERE! I'm looking at something." 

"Hey! What are you doing now? Want to play? Is it dinnertime yet?  Is it dinnertime yet? What about now?"

So, there you have it. If I am slow to update my blog or comment on yours, you now know who's to blame.