A Butch in Femme Clothing?

This morning Leroy the Cat brought in another dead thing. If you’re counting this is four things.

1. The Blue Bird brought in while I was sleeping and Mirs was in Newark doing coding in kindergarten classes. I was all alone, the bird was injured not dead.

2. The Mourning Dove while we both slept. Sensory memory kicked in. I heard the deep growling breaths of the cat, heard the flapping wings of the helpless bird, Mirs had to take the poor near-death bird out back and, well…

3. Dead Mouse. Leroy makes this high-pitched meow when he’s got something in his mouth. We heard the noise, he was playing with it in the bathroom. Mirs threw it away.

and today. Laying in bed with a pounding headache from 2 shared bottles of wine Leroy made the meow. I got up from bed and saw the dead small bird and threw it away, washed my hands and returned to bed.

2 Hours later I was making pancakes for our hangovers with sausage and fried eggs and Mirs tells me that she loves how tough I am. That I picked up a dead bird without cringing to throw it away. Grilled us some veggies and meat on the BBQ last night. Carried her on my back out of the park to the car service that took us to the hospital when she sprained her ankle. I can build a camp fire, change a tire, and I don’t take shit from anyone ANYONE. She called me tough-she meant Butch. I like to top, I like picking her up, throwing her around. I like to wrestle. I do look really good (really good) in a tie.

So it would seem that I’m a butch, in Femme Clothes

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