The first time Zim took me to Noah's Ark, an elderly cat waddled up to us and started rubbing against Zim's leg. Or at least I assume Zim's leg-assailant was a cat – he looked more like a cross between a cow and the Goodyear Blimp, but he knew how to meow, so I'll respect his cat identity. Zim started to pet the cat, and the lady behind the counter interrupted him.
“Oh, that one's not for sale. Been here from the beginning, he has. Name's Lard Man.”
It was the most fitting of all possible names.
Today started kind of badly for me and a few of my roommates, so Zim suggested that we go to Noah's Ark. They had kittens this time! Three tiny kittens with the energy of fighter jets. Fighter jets that can do parkour.
I was so busy playing with the jet kitties that I didn't notice Lard Man at first. He was standing quietly in front of my foot as though he had oozed out of the floor there. When I leaned down to pet him, he fell over. I thought it was an accident at first, but when I rubbed his belly the purrs started. The kittens seemed curious about the sound, and they all started dive-bombing Lard Man. He took it like a great lumpy gentleman and just purred louder.
“Ah Lard Man,” said the lady behind the counter, “he'll be twelve years old come July. We tried to rename him Leonardo once, but it just didn't stick.”
Lard Man nuzzled my hand. I'm not sure how he managed it without turning back over or moving at all, but somehow he did.
The day's not so bad now. Lard Man is the best damn therapist ever. Somebody get the guy a PhD.