In Soviet Russia...
We have a cat. I've mentioned the cat here and there over the years. He's still here, 12 years old, and fatter than ever.
Ah yes, the old Fuzz Bucket. He only gets called by his real name when he's in serious trouble, just like a little kid. Otherwise, he's Fuzz Bucket, Kitty, Stupid Cat, or Dude (as in, "Dude, seriously! You've already had your dinner. Stop bugging me!"). And just like a little kid, he has peed or thrown up on a seemingly infinite number of surfaces and objects, yet, he's still alive and he's still here. He's like the bratty little brother I never wanted.
Fuzz Bucket primarily lives in my room, which is actually my sister's old room. None of that matters to the cat: it's his room. Hence, he must have 24 hour access in and out of my room. Failure to provide unlimited access to the room will result in being awoken at 3am by endless pawing and meowing at the door until His Royal Highness has been allowed to enter. Fuzz Bucket has his own special spot on my bed; a beach towel covers it to keep the massive amounts of fur off of my comforter.
The first person to go downstairs in the morning must feed the cat. The first person to walk in the door after 4pm must feed the cat. These are the rules. Fuzz Bucket enforces them. Ignore the rules, and you will receive a head butt from Sir FurryPants.
Yes, a head butt. My cat head butts us when he is demanding to be fed.
And he's still here. We feed him and clean his litter boxes (yes, he has two!) and feed him and let him sleep wherever he wants to and feed him and open the blinds to the sliding glass door so he can watch the birds and squirrels. Did I mention that we feed him?
The cat knows the sound of the margarine tub being opened (because every once in a while, he'll get a "treat," a pat of margarine in his food dish). He knows the sound of the deli bags (because every once in a while, he'll get another treat, a tiny piece of turkey or cheese). The cat knows when there's a fresh bag of kitty food in the pantry.
I didn't know that he knows the sound of the electric can opener, too.
I decided to have a tuna sandwich for dinner, and attempted to open the can with the electric can opener. After about 10 seconds of miserably failing at this, the cat comes barreling down the stairs and down the hall into the kitchen.
"What the hell? You don't eat canned cat food! Why did you come down here?" was my line of questioning to ol' Fuzz Bucket, as he stopped in the hall and just stared at me. Waiting. For something. Mom comes downstairs as I'm searching for an old school can opener, and opens the can for me. The cat trots into the kitchen and looks at us expectantly.
"Oh," I realize, "You want the tuna! Well, you can't have any. Especially since you threw up on my bed last week. So there! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!"
"He can have tuna," Mom said. "I give him the can."
"What?"
"Well, you really can't get every single little bit out of there. So after I empty the can, I give it to the cat."
"Oh." I spoon the tuna out of the can and into my bowl. The cat is doing his "Feed Me" dance, and making a holy racket. I place the can by Fuzz Bucket's bowl, and he immediately tucks in, clearing the last bits of tuna away.
There is the cat, who just puked on my bed last week, with the empty can of tuna that I let him lick.
He really doesn't know how good he has it.
In a perfect world, we own cats. In the real world, cats own us.
Ah yes, the old Fuzz Bucket. He only gets called by his real name when he's in serious trouble, just like a little kid. Otherwise, he's Fuzz Bucket, Kitty, Stupid Cat, or Dude (as in, "Dude, seriously! You've already had your dinner. Stop bugging me!"). And just like a little kid, he has peed or thrown up on a seemingly infinite number of surfaces and objects, yet, he's still alive and he's still here. He's like the bratty little brother I never wanted.
Fuzz Bucket primarily lives in my room, which is actually my sister's old room. None of that matters to the cat: it's his room. Hence, he must have 24 hour access in and out of my room. Failure to provide unlimited access to the room will result in being awoken at 3am by endless pawing and meowing at the door until His Royal Highness has been allowed to enter. Fuzz Bucket has his own special spot on my bed; a beach towel covers it to keep the massive amounts of fur off of my comforter.
The first person to go downstairs in the morning must feed the cat. The first person to walk in the door after 4pm must feed the cat. These are the rules. Fuzz Bucket enforces them. Ignore the rules, and you will receive a head butt from Sir FurryPants.
Yes, a head butt. My cat head butts us when he is demanding to be fed.
And he's still here. We feed him and clean his litter boxes (yes, he has two!) and feed him and let him sleep wherever he wants to and feed him and open the blinds to the sliding glass door so he can watch the birds and squirrels. Did I mention that we feed him?
The cat knows the sound of the margarine tub being opened (because every once in a while, he'll get a "treat," a pat of margarine in his food dish). He knows the sound of the deli bags (because every once in a while, he'll get another treat, a tiny piece of turkey or cheese). The cat knows when there's a fresh bag of kitty food in the pantry.
I didn't know that he knows the sound of the electric can opener, too.
I decided to have a tuna sandwich for dinner, and attempted to open the can with the electric can opener. After about 10 seconds of miserably failing at this, the cat comes barreling down the stairs and down the hall into the kitchen.
"What the hell? You don't eat canned cat food! Why did you come down here?" was my line of questioning to ol' Fuzz Bucket, as he stopped in the hall and just stared at me. Waiting. For something. Mom comes downstairs as I'm searching for an old school can opener, and opens the can for me. The cat trots into the kitchen and looks at us expectantly.
"Oh," I realize, "You want the tuna! Well, you can't have any. Especially since you threw up on my bed last week. So there! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!"
"He can have tuna," Mom said. "I give him the can."
"What?"
"Well, you really can't get every single little bit out of there. So after I empty the can, I give it to the cat."
"Oh." I spoon the tuna out of the can and into my bowl. The cat is doing his "Feed Me" dance, and making a holy racket. I place the can by Fuzz Bucket's bowl, and he immediately tucks in, clearing the last bits of tuna away.
There is the cat, who just puked on my bed last week, with the empty can of tuna that I let him lick.
He really doesn't know how good he has it.
In a perfect world, we own cats. In the real world, cats own us.
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