Urban Fur: Daisy

As are most things New York Shitty, the story leading up to the above photographs is as much— if not more so— interesting than the images themselves. What’s more, my eardrums can personally attest to this fact.

It started simply enough: I was headed to the service-charge free ATM. I have been ordered to do this by the Mister and for the most part I am compliant. As I am approaching the place of Daisy’s work and play I spy a 50-something Polish couple taking in the wonder that is Daisy at rest with her belly revealed for all to enjoy. I stopped. This is a decision I would soon regret.

After making wise-cracks about her possibly being dead the husband started pounding on the window. His wife found this hilarious. However, Daisy didn’t. And neither did I for that matter; I politely stated that Daisy wants to sleep. This was summarily ignored. He kept on knocking and the manager of said establishment came out in a huff. What followed was a rather high decibel (and high-pitched) exchange in Polish. I could not parse it (my Polish vocabulary is rather limited, but I have a decent command of profanity). Nonetheless, I  got the gist.

To whatever besotted soul thought “love” (or Esperanto) was the international language:

I beg to differ. It has been my observation after living in this international city for (more or less) 14 years shouting seems to be the lingua franca. And when punctuated with someone slamming the door shut (in this case, the manager) this can mean one thing and one thing only:

Fuck you.

Which brings me to the above photographs. This incident not only prompted Daisy (for reasons only known to her) to clean her ass, but it attracted the attention of children passersby. One of whom said to his father/keeper:

Look, this deli sells cats!

He was quickly advised to keep quiet and not to disturb her in any way. There is a lesson to be found here. I will leave it to you, gentle readers, to find it.

Miss Heather



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