Scabs, The Dark Baroness of SCAT, and Her Gastrointestinal Accordian

So my cat Esme (formerly known as Scabs) is hands down THE gassiest cat I've ever met. About an hour ago, she did a flip and farted as she landed. She farts when I pick her up. She farts when she's sleeping. Any time she folds or bends her body, a fart usually accompanies it. And when she's not farting, her stomach is churning away loudly. The other night, I actually thought I was hearing birds. I even asked out loud, "Are those birds?? AT NIGHT?!?" (because I frequently ask my cats questions, with rarely a reply), and then I realized it was her stomach. (And I'm not being even remotely hyperbolic when I say that.) Birds. A noisy flock of birds.

So in my head, I've created an elaborate persona for Esme:

By day, she is mild-mannered Esme, fey and waify; she talks in a whisper and all the boys think her "pretty" and "gentle." She is willowy and wears thin cotton dresses that catch in the wind, and if the sun lights on her in just the right way, one might even say she's beautiful:



But by night she is Scabs, the Dark Baroness of SCATology, headliner in Cleveland's Underground Circus of Freaks, where she literally plays her digestive system like an accordion, wowing the city's seedy masses who pay her a nickel to see her wail on her gastrointestinal accordion.

She bends and contorts her sleek body, cocking her eyebrows crazily as notes squawk from her innards, forming bawdy tunes that leave the crowds howling for more.

All the men are in love with her. And yet all the men fear her. (And for that, they love her even more.)

Here she cackles with delight as the men swoon at her feet:

Scabs, The Dark
Baroness of SCAT, and Her
Gastrointestinal Accordian

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