White Heat

I promise, this will not be a blog with endless entries about my cat. Next time, owls, I think. But today, there's no escaping her. The rascal ballerina is in heat.

She howls. She rolls on the floor. She pushes shoes around with her face (apparently, this is satisfying). She yearns desperately for the panther, who is not only neutered, but also freaked out by it all and hides out in Mum&Dad's bedroom. And she refuses to let her tail down for even a minute, because a tomcat just might materialize, you know, and she wouldn't want him to miss the point.

And after a visit to the local nightclub yesterday, with its usual scene of self-conscious gyrating and lipglossed, beer drenched shuffling, I wonder. What would happen if evolution took a feline detour there?

I suspect: much.