Fezzik In Paris

Two Americans, three cats, and too many places named "de Gaulle"

According to the substitute veterinarian, who lavished our resident giant with affection, Fezzik is not simply a fatass whose genetic wheel-of-fortune landed on “bon sang, this one is going to be fucking huge.”

Rather, moose/beef/fat tuna/happy sushi/hey pig/piggles/fromage/pork (Fezzik has an incredible number of nicknames, owing to his eminent nicknamability) is an apparently-pure large variant of the European shorthair cat.

Said vet was shocked to find that we had acquired him in the States. This is currently reducing us into giggle fits as we imagine various European expatriates being sent to the US, going “oh fuck this,” and then abandoning Fezzik at the shelter whence we acquired him.

The fact that there’s a race of smug, beefy cats wandering about brings to mind a mental image of Night of the Lepus, but set in a rural French town that’s being invaded by Fezziks.

Ah la vache.

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