Team Trubbleface
Eddie and I recently became the pet-parents of Indiana and Jaws, two precocious little darling kitties who have filled our life with laughter and some very interesting new stories. You really don’t know how much you can love until you’re chasing something small and adorable around with a spray bottle and a roll of paper towels.
Indiana
Jaws
Here are some recent lessons we’ve learned from our two girls:
Trash Tastes Good… but it also means tummy war.
Every once in a hundred years or so, Haley’s comet makes a pass at this area of the universe, and I clean the fridge. This time, one of the main attractions in the trash bag was chicken that had… let’s say passed its optimal eating stage. I’m not proud.
In one shot, the two cats had launched a synchronized attack on aforementioned trash bag. Before I could yell “NOTRASHCATSDONTEATTHATITSTRASH!!!” they had gummed some tasty dead carcass.
The next morning, the piper came in search of payment. Let’s just say that I’ll never again look at a Jackson Pollack in quite the same way again. Refer to above spray-bottle mention above for further details.
Treats of Every Hue
Treats can be socks, the toes in socks, the trash (see above) or things in bags that look nothing like fishies or mice. I learned quickly that one never leaves anything on a counter that is not made of concrete and housed in steel. The girls WILL get in. I learned this the day I came home to find something truly horrifying waiting for me at the front door.
It was beige. It was slimy. It may or may not have ever had a pulse. It had quite obviously been on the receiving end of some rather vigorous attention from either one or both of the cats.
I stared at it for a while. I stared at it for another long while. I thought back to the chicken of the previous night. It is beige… and gross. And- beige.
THANK GOD. It was Thornton’s Clotted Cream Fudge. My two kitties, with their talons as sharp as the tongue of an Italian grandmother, had surgically removed the contents of a previously intact bag of the delectable English candy. Having mouthed it for a bit in a contemplative fashion, they came to agree that there was nothing much to the stuff and left it for me to dispose of.
They moved on to my Hobnobs shortly after, but having neither opposable thumbs with which to make dunking gestures, nor milk in which to dunk, they simply shredded the sleeve of cookies open, had a good gander at it, and left to go battle around the world.
Any Port in a Storm
Jaws has decided that her refined nose and paws must not touch any box of litter previously pooped in. Ever. Poop is of course poop, and it’s simply far below her station to poop (or anything else) somewhere that poop already resides. This means that Ed and I now live in fear of missing a poop in the boxes of doom.
Jaws found a much better solution to the problem yesterday however. Seeing that poop existed where she usually drops in, she went looking for an alternative.
In her defense, an almost-empty laundry basket DOES sort of look like a giant litter box.
I’m reading in bed, when I hear ::::scritch scritch scritch::::
Couldn’t be……….
OH but yes. It is.
She’s peed on my clothing. She is now attempting diligently to cover it with thin air. So it goes.
Final score: Jawsie 1, Ma’s undies and pillowcase, zip.
