My fat kitty

Back in the day I used to have a big fat cat. His name was Mildew. In the beginning I was not that fond of him; hence the name. He and his litter-mate who was called Thirty-Four-And-A-Half just showed up at my apartment one day. I meant to drown them both in the toilet, but I never got around to it. Instead I overfed them and gave them insulting names, which at the end of the day just made it embarrassing to take them to the vet. Mildew became my buddy when I was heartbroken over the Australian electrochemist who was moving back to Melbourne. I was sad and big fat Mildew suddenly started jumping (which was hard for him) into my bed and cuddling with me at night (which is hard because I'm about as cuddly as a surfboard). He either nursed me back to health or sucked out my soul, which one? it's debatable. Anyway, I felt better with his company. I started to say things like "he's just big boned" and "it's his glands, he can't help it".
Why these fond reminiscences today?
It's just a friendly warning to Dr. P.A. from Dr. I.N. :
You are teetering on the edge of the cliff, sliding right down that slippery slope. Get rid of those kittens, you're headed straight for "crazy cat lady" status. Really. I think I still have it in me to drown them, maybe. You're going to have your furniture ruined and they will sit and stare at you while you're eating Doritos on your exercise bike. Godspeed, woman.