I don't have biological children, although Morty, my cat, does look a lot like me in the whiskers and toenails departments.
And when he has a fur ball lodged in his throat, people mistake us for sisters, due to my sympathy hacks.
I do think of Morty as my son and I've already made plans to leave him the family business. He's in training for it. We basically eat around the clock.
I didn't say it was a money-making business.
So, I was happy to pal up with him on Father's Day. That's a day when the kids think they are doing something special for Dad, but, instead, the old man actually humors the little ones. I took Morty fishing.
Like most youngsters, Morty insisted on a lift.
What could I do? He called, "Shotgun!"
I didn't mind carrying him. He's a pretty good navigator, you know, what with the rudder.
We walked down to the creek and I watched Morty get dizzy eyeballing trout, quickly losing interest after the splash. He meowed impatiently for the towel boy, which, of course, was me.
I fluff-dried him, mere seconds before our long afternoon nap.
We'd get up every few minutes and relocate several feet to the sunbeam moving across the ground, eventually causing me to sleepily roll off the creek bank. Splash.
I had hoped for a "King of the Day" helium balloon like we saw in the supermarket, but I didn't receive one. Morty only got as far as purchasing the string -- and he won't let me play with it either.
