Don’t ask me why but I have two cats named Nigel and Whitney, both females, also don’t ask (or refer to past postings on them). Whitney is the people’s cat. The sweetheart. The love of anyone’s life. Nigel is a douchebag. She’s beautiful but she is a self-centered buttface. That is who they are and nothing can change that. But there are even weirder personality traits at hand that really should be examined.
Take a walk with me. Not literally but while we talk using words. Our main bathroom door I’ve discovered doesn’t quite seal so being in throne room, I typically like doing it solo, go figure. But if not Nigel it’s Whitney opening the dang door and demanding attention. Tonight she practically showered with me, offensive as that sounds. It’s like where did you learn how to crack a safe? On tv? Surely you must know how to program the pvr.
And they’ve convinced both themselves and me, their master, that they are actually dogs in cats clothing. Out of a dead sleep they would come running at the sound of a crinkly bag, assuming it’s cat treats. At this point, whenever I am in the kitchen they are on their tippy toes begging for a nibble. And to further that persona, I enable them by feeding them! Deli meat, cheese, bacon, you name it. All human food and possibly dog food. Buttheads!
If I knew how to build things I would erect a dog house for the two of them. Of course for them I would have to install a furnace, bunk beds, a mini-fridge, a crappers corner and a wide screen tv for those late night Paw Patrol binges. They’d no doubt still whine (meow) and make a fuss, as though the world isn’t theirs for full domination.
I wanted to include the following conversation excerpt I had with both Nigel and Whitney the other day, just in case you haven’t really grasped what I’m dealing with over here on a minute to minute basis.
Me: “Here, try this new wet food I spent my hard earned money on.”
Nigel: (after a brief sniff) “Meow”. Roughly translated: “You call this crap food? You served me crap in a can and I’m supposed to do backflips over it? Get over yourself.”
Me: “Okkk? At least Whitney loves me, right baby?” (petting pretty Whit)
Whitney: “Meow”. Rough translation: “Give me a piece of ham or cheese and then we’ll talk. Oh by the way, I took a dump in front of the litter. Not in the litter, but outside it. Thanks.”
Trust me, I remind them daily I could let them out into the snow for them to never return. I could step on them, fatally. They could be flushed. Yet they live and pester me like gangbusters. Do I love these wanna be hound dogs? Surely. I mean I guess.