Sexing The Single Pussy

A new pussy has come into my life.

A young pussy, admittedly, but a lovely pussy all the same.

It’s a cute ginger tabby that seems to have adopted me. I have no delusion that it is my naturally attractive persona that attracts him to me. His is a cupboard love - when he comes to visit, I give him food and milk.

Scrooch, as I call him (I nearly called him Rover but if he and a dog came when I called him, life could get exciting…) Scrooch is at that cute stage when he will attack anything that swings enticingly and invitingly above him. So I never go naked in the house when he’s visiting.

At least, I think Scrooch is a he. Friend, Shirley was visiting when he last came to visit and I introduced him to her.

“Is it a male or a female?” she asked.

“A male,” I replied. Then I added: “I think.”

Shirley put on this knowledgeable look that comes from having read the 1947 Girl’s Book Of Caring For Pets” and said: “I’ll find out.”

So she swooped down, picked the cat up and felt between its back legs.

Now *that* gave Scrooch cause for concern. He looked at me as if to say: “Do you know where this human is squeezing me!?” and wriggled in protest.

“It’s a girl,” said Shirley, putting the offended cat back on the ground.

I offered Scrooch some jellimeat, and thankfully the transexual cat decided that it would forgo its indignation for food and started tucking in.

Scrooch was a she?! Nah. That cat didn’t strike me as a she cat. I looked at it eating up large and found myself wondering whether Shirley’s animal sexing abilities were all that good. After all, the 1947 Girl’s Book Of Caring For Pets probably didn’t even mention sex, or else it inferred that animal birth was all a matter of immaculate conception. And it certainly wouldn’t have told her how to distinguish between male and female genitalia by feel.

“Are you sure it’s male?” I asked doubtfully, “From the rear end it doesn’t look like that to me.”

Next second the poor cat was hauled up away from its jelliment and Shirley was again poking and prodding its nether regions. I could have sworn that cat was tossing up whether to spit out the food in its mouth and attack; or chew it up, swallow and just fart in self defence. Instead, it just did a quick swallow before wriggling in Shirley’s arms to escape those probing fingers.

“It could be a male,” said Shirley as she sadistically, if carefully, squeezed delicate parts of the poor cat’s personage. “On our cat, it’s balls were as large as an elephant’s.”

I restrained myself from asking her how she knew how large an elephant’s balls were and, as the cat’s tail started a slow wicked wagging, said: “If you don’t put him down, he gonna slice you.”

Shirley looked warily down at the lithe young cat in her hands and obviously decided that even if he had balls, she didn’t. So after one last squeeze, the cat was placed back down near its food. I have to say it was a tribute either to his nice nature or his greediness that Scrooch went back to eating, rather than starting to slice into Shirley’s nearby ankles.

A few minutes later, when Shirley and I had sat down to have a cup of tea, she looked down at the little ginger furrball now stretched out happily in front of the LPG heater and said: “Come to think of it, it must be a male. All ginger tabbies are male”.

It was right about then that the cat stopped cleaning itself and looked up at her. Now I’m pretty good at reading animal’s expressions, and I’m pretty sure I know what Scrooch was thinking:
“And you think of that AFTER you’ve given me sore balls?!”