Winston: On Facial Fur

Mom’s computer is broken. I swear that Franklin and I had nothing to do with it. (Probably.)

Yes, we were walking across the keyboard a few nights ago, before being rudely told to go about our normal business. However, the blow-up happened when she was playing that game—the one with the flashing spells and the cool music and all—and suddenly the machine made a “pop” sound, and died. Her tech friend said she probably has a faulty hard drive.

This is not a good thing.

But in a way it is a bit of a good thing because the computer is out for repair. In the meantime, she won’t be able to embarrass me by putting up pictures of me in my current, somewhat dilapidated state.

I don’t know what happened. I can’t for the life of me figure it out. Franklin first called attention to the situation by pointing at me and laughing one afternoon, as Mom was petting me. (I think he was jealous that she was cooing over me, and wanted to divert attention in his direction.) Anyway, Mom suddenly exclaimed, “Winston, what happened to your whiskers? They’re a mess!”

Now, I can’t see them very well--it makes me even more cross-eyed when I try--but she says about a third of my whiskers are broken off, a couple are bent at odd angles, and I have fewer above one eye than the other. I heard her tell a friend, “Winston looks pretty funny right now.” Franklin has taken to stroking his luxuriant whiskers in front of everyone, softly chuckling behind his paw. I have tried to tell folks that this whole thing is an intentional fashion choice, that I was going for this season’s “rakish look,” but so far no one seems to be buying it.

The race is on: I must regrow a snootful of whiskers and pop a few more on my forehead before the computer gets back and I’m forever captured in an embarrassing photograph! I hope to win this contest, if only by… yes… a whisker. ;)