Or, I guess I should say, dear Sabir. That is your real name, not that you’d ever respond to it. I feel a bit responsible for that. Not wholly, of course, as you were my PH’s cat long before you ever started coming to me for treats, but I did know you way back then, when you were just an itty bitty kitten. It met you during our very first date. Were you even eight weeks old? If so, barely. You were just a fuzzy ball of orange. So wee. So innocent.
Actually, scratch that. There has never been anything innocent about you. From day one you had claws that left permanent scars on my hands. I was afraid of cats back then too. Oddly, it was you who finally helped me conquer those fears. I highly doubt that was your intention.
We’ve never been friends, have we? I have always adored you – obviously – and you have never felt anything but disdain for me. Our relationship has always been a little tempestuous as a result.
Lately, though, lately I kind felt like we’ve been building a rapport. It’s been what? Six years since we moved in together? You spent five of those plotting my death. It’s okay, you can be honest with me. I know you blame me for the dog. The important thing is that during this last year we seem to have come to an understanding. You seem to do more than grudgingly tolerate me. You seem to maybe even – dare I suggest – enjoy having me around. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone this, but the day you rubbed against my legs on purpose, it made me so happy. I felt like we had formed a real connection.
Even if it’s only because I can open the bag of Temptations. And you can’t.
We were bonded in that moment. You and I. Cat and human.
That’s why your behaviour the last two nights is so frustrating for me. I thought we had an understanding. Did I do something wrong?
Why? Why did you feel the need to play with your little mouse toy at three am two nights in a row? Why does your form of play consist of batting the rodent wildly against the bedroom door? It’s loud and, well, obnoxious . You may think three am is a good time to practice your fearsome hunting skills. We pathetic humans do not.
The thing is, the mouse toy is not a three am toy. This is a three am toy:
You are an adult now, after all. Almost eight years old. An eight year old cat shouldn’t be running around at all hours of the night, playing games. You have responsibilities.
I hate to pull the canine card, but I find it pretty sad that even Shiva the Wackadoo understands that night time is for sleeping. Your actions the past two nights in a row have officially rendered you more annoying than the dog.
Just think about that for a minute.
If that isn’t enough to disturb you, I have an idea. How’s about tonight, if you decide it’s mousey time before I think it’s mousey time, I pick you up and shut you away in the bathroom? And not the downstairs bathroom, where you can play with the shower curtain or wham your body against the door so loud the neighbours can hear. The upstairs bathroom. The one with no window.
How do you like them apples?
If that isn’t enough to motivate you to find other midnight activities, I have another suggestion. You know that blanket my best friend gave you for Christmas? The one I promised I would never let the dog drool on? If you frolic with that dang toy while I am sleeping just one more time, the blanket is going to be Shiva’ new tug toy. And you know how careful she is with her things.
Have we come to an agreement?
I really hope so.