I hug my hot-water bottle tight, rub my feet together to encourage blood to flow and wait for my 13.5 tog duvet (brought over from the UK because despite their sub zero winters, I was unable to find a decent duvet here – and even if I did find one there was no way of knowing b/c they don’t use any sort of warmth rating) to start doing it’s job.
*crash smash meow* “Stupid *$#!ing cat”
(This from the dining room.)
I wait, wondering whether I can pretend to already be asleep or whether I need to get out there and defend my kitty.
I get up.
“This can’t go on. He’s out of control. I’m shutting him away.”
“He’s young. He’s bored. We need to play with him more.”
“He’s a cat.”
“He’s young. He’s bored. We need to play with him more.”
“He’s staying in this room for the night”
“No he’s not.”
I sweep and vac and do my best to hide the evidence of kitty’s disgrace. I then fetch him from the cold cold room meanie Jeremy has shut him in and take him into our bedroom (which is also cold but there’s me, my hot water bottle, 13.5 tog duvet and electric blanket for him to snuggle next to).
"There’s still glass on the floor out here."
I feign sleep. Jeremy, after grumbling a little more about just how much glass I failed to vac up, comes to bed and, as per usual, ignores my feigning and starts to talk to me.
“He needs discipline.”
“He’s a cat – he doesn’t know what he’s done wrong.”
“We need to isolate him and teach him a lesson.”
“It wont work – he has about a 5 second memory”
“What sort of a parent are you going to be if you can’t even discipline a cat?” *
“It’s not the same” I mumble, letting kitty snuggle into me and moving my fingers out of hunting-reach”
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| Who, me? |
*disclaimer: I'm not pregnant.
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