He's 11 years old and, at a recent check up, the vet said he was a perfect weight - despite seeming a little lightweight - and that most cats are massively overweight.
Excellent!
So Max is a perfect weight, but what do Mother and Father do? Get him some special pouched food, just for him, to see if they can make him eat more.
Fucktards. No wonder I've always been a fucking fat bloater, being force fed like some sort of goose that ends up as pate.
Anway, Sonny has taken on the mantle of being a ginger cat in every sense of the word: he's a bloody off his head, mental, homicidal-psycho-jungle-cat. Sonny is 8 this year, just look at those claws of death:
These two felines were recruited by informed consent into an uncontrolled trial of the effects of Whiskas pouched cat food on mental ability ("can't be arsedness"). Remember, Max is fed the puched food and Sonny gets standard Felix and Costco brand dried cat food.
Let's see what happens when we try to tickle both of our participants with a magpie feather:
"Oooh, what's all this then?"
"Worth having a look at"
"C'mere, y'fucker!"
"Nyyyyyighhh! BASTARD!"
And when we try it out on Max?
See? His new poncy diet has addled his brain and he can't be arsed being a cat anymore. I think the packaging plant for the place has been infiltrated by the Avian league of friends and they've introduced a powerful neurotoxin into pussy pouches. Poor old Max! I wonder if you can tell that a cat's been brain damaged when he spends 23 hours a day sleeping??
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