The eternal companion of St. Nuke.

Want him, want him, want him. Not small animal safe? Our undefeated tabby Elliott would kill him.

He doesn’t have paws but clubs. He always always beats the shit out of them.

Why my wife says no. But I did steal his picture. Are you going to sue me? I think he could be the famousest greyhound ever.

Woke up the other night hearing a cat scream. Deerhound heard it too and woke up. Got up, turned on lights, explored the house, turned on the outside lights, called his name. No Elliott. Next morning, there he was. Untouched. He’s kicked every ass in the neighborhood, which I happen to know includes raccoons, groundhogs, red-winged Hawks, and roaming dogs. Every morning, there he is.

He’s taken over the sighthound bed upstairs. He has time on top of me every evening, much to the jealous consternation of the deerhound. They get along. The other night I watched him make a decision about following his mommy down the stairs. First thought he’d steer wide around the Rock of Gibraltar ass, then changed his mind and just jumped the first cousin of a dog I saw swallow a sparrow out of the air.

It’s all in how you play the game. His foster mama told us he was an alpha. Our first cat alpha, Mickey, put him in his place. Now there’s nothing to stop him.

He accepts that Raebert is the Alpha of the pack. But Elliott is the self-appointed gladiator. And he still chooses to spend his evenings with me. Go figure.

Not safe around small animals has everything to do with who the small animals are.