I do love my cats - both of them. True, but they'd don't do a lot for me; perhaps one or the other will lay on my lap if none other is available or willing, neither do they enhance my writing by stepping on the keyboard or insisting I let them rub their heads on the corner of my precariously balanced laptop. Still, that's marginally better than getting an unexpected head bump while holding a hot cup of coffee or deciding to rub against my leg while I am stair-stepping.
They are in my office at the moment, one holding a paw over her eyes since I refuse to turn off the desk light while the other lounges on the floor behind a chair rather than in the comfy cat bed I stumble over each morning in my pre-coffee confusion. Soon one of them will leap onto my lap to disrupt whatever chain of thought was inspiring me
I run the equations of our relationship as follows: I empty and clean their litter boxes, sweep up the litter they insist on kicking out, feed them on a regular schedule, and manage to painfully press their unwilling bodies into the fearful carrying bag for periodic visits to the vet only to see them leap into said bag the instant they are released. I also provide room and board, turning me into little more than their boarding house servant. In gratitude they ignore me and treat my wife as if she were their dear mother, for God's sake.
Now, let's look at the other side of the equation and what I get in return; they sleep twenty-six hours a day, insist that I get up at an ungodly dark-oh-thirty hour for no discernible reason, and yowl pitifully if I miss their meal times by more than twenty milli-seconds. Their claws leave indecipherable graffiti on our leather furniture and produce LOTS of hair, which I find in my food, clothes, and nose. I often wonder how much cat hair I will ingest over their lifetimes.
Yet they do offer companionship of a sort -alerting us to invading crickets, flies, and the presence of that damn chipmunk outside (they ignore the squirrels, which I suspect is a case of tail envy.)
#SFWApro
They are in my office at the moment, one holding a paw over her eyes since I refuse to turn off the desk light while the other lounges on the floor behind a chair rather than in the comfy cat bed I stumble over each morning in my pre-coffee confusion. Soon one of them will leap onto my lap to disrupt whatever chain of thought was inspiring me
I run the equations of our relationship as follows: I empty and clean their litter boxes, sweep up the litter they insist on kicking out, feed them on a regular schedule, and manage to painfully press their unwilling bodies into the fearful carrying bag for periodic visits to the vet only to see them leap into said bag the instant they are released. I also provide room and board, turning me into little more than their boarding house servant. In gratitude they ignore me and treat my wife as if she were their dear mother, for God's sake.
Now, let's look at the other side of the equation and what I get in return; they sleep twenty-six hours a day, insist that I get up at an ungodly dark-oh-thirty hour for no discernible reason, and yowl pitifully if I miss their meal times by more than twenty milli-seconds. Their claws leave indecipherable graffiti on our leather furniture and produce LOTS of hair, which I find in my food, clothes, and nose. I often wonder how much cat hair I will ingest over their lifetimes.
Yet they do offer companionship of a sort -alerting us to invading crickets, flies, and the presence of that damn chipmunk outside (they ignore the squirrels, which I suspect is a case of tail envy.)
#SFWApro
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