PARISHITLER.BLOGSPOT.COM

I was so touched by the cats' species shifting that I wanted to do something for them. If they were talented enough to write in cursive pee-script in the snow I figured maybe with the right apparatus they could type. The instrument they used to write in the snow obviously would not do. And even with bottle caps attached to their feet they didn't have the dexterity in that appendage. Now is the time for all goood hzhfhiuie yponk dkjig. See what I mean? Then I had an idea. I found an old softball, cut it in half like a grapefruit and scouped out the insides. Then Nicole freaked and split. Paris looked at me as if to say, "Fuck her. I'm interested."
"Lets see if this fits." I said snugging the little helmet over Paris' head. I cinched a tiny chin strap and adjusted it so it was comfortable. How would this help Paris type, you ask? Just wait. Nicole reappeared dragging a decapitated chipmunk, staying just out of reach in the yard. I removed the helmet and cut a small hole in the top. Then I inserted an old car antenna, taping a fishing sinker to the tip. I set up the Mac. on the porch and showed Paris how to get on line. He wasn't pleased with the slow speed of the dial up. I told him to get over it. "Nicole?" I called pointing to Paris surfing the web. She was too involved eviscerating the chipmunk to be bothered. Then I had another idea. What if the cats had their own blog?
I moved Paris over in the chair and went to blogspot. Within minutes I had set up the blog in my name. Because Paris and Nicole had no pockets they had no credit cards so I wasn't worriied about them getting in financial trouble. Paris studied my every move. I let him back at the keys and watched as he typed in THAT'S HOT! I can't tell you how proud I am.