A few years ago, I went to the pound and got a cat. I don't know if you've ever been to the pound, but it's one of the most heartbreaking things ever. There are cats and dogs in cages everywhere, and they're all whimpering or meowing at you to get your attention, hoping that you'll take them home and give them a place to live. Well, I managed to pick you a little cat. It was the tiniest little cat you ever did see. I filled out the necessary paperwork, and decided to name my cat Delilah, since they told me it was a female. Well, months passed and the cat grew to know it's name. It was a very affectionate little thing, but constantly getting into trouble. Then the day came that the cat had to get fixed. I took the cat to the vet and dropped it off for the day, and went to work. While I was there, I got a call from the vet, "There is a little problem with Delilah" they said. I feared the worse. The had over medicated the cat or the cat was sick or something worse. But it turned out that Delilah was really a Delilo, if you catch my meaning. My poor cat was a gender confused pet, a Boy George in pet form. Even after he had gone to the trouble of learning his name. We renamed the cat Odyssyus, for no reason other than it sounded cool. Now the cat is about the size of an ocelot or a lynx. He's a big fatty. We should have named it Alberta originally, so that it could be renamed into Albert. Fat Albert. Nah, nah, nah, gonna have a good time. Hey, hey, hey.* Later on, the cat decided to run for cat president of the world, losing out to a stubby tailed cat veteran who campaigned on a platform of trash scavaging reform. Odyssyus then published his memoirs in a book that was a bestseller on the Cat Fancy list for 4 months. He then retired to the Catskills to live out his life planting various types of nuts. The end.