You know what really gets on my nerves? A lot of things.

That slow, slinky way that cats walk by. Grrrr.

The rude, abrupt arrival of delivery persons in their obnoxiously loud trucks. (Why do they always pull up just as I'm settling down for a nap?) Grrrr.

Total strangers who reach down and poke me with fat, clumsy fingers that reek of antibacterial soap. Grrrr.

And this one always gets my dander up: Me and the human are out on a walk, when some passerby stops and points at me.

"What a cutie. How old is she?"

"What insolence!" I'll yap back. "I'm a he! And how old are you?!"

Then I'm told to shut up. Then the conversation continues.

"He's 7."

"Oh, so that means he's... 7 × 7 = 49 years old in dog years." 

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