If the virus doesn’t get us, the Cat will.
Lockdown tempers became a little frazzled in our little suburban paradise this weekend. The Maestro and I had a ridiculous (now) set-to about tissues, pockets and washing machines; and in general even light-hearted banter between the siblings was a bit strained.
The only one stalking through life with an air of indifference is Sophie the Psychopath (sorry, Cat)
This is the only resident ginger who still dares to make demands: ‘Feed me’; ‘Open the door – I want to go out’; and 2 minutes later, ‘Open the door – I changed my mind, damnit;’ ‘Run the tap, Bitch – I’m thirsty -that bowl you gave me is for unter-creatures, like dogs.’
And what bugs me is that we oblige. And we don’t expect thanks, like meek slaves of Sophie the Sphinx. Then, like a sulky ramp model, She sidles past, as if She just happened to be there when we were doing said menial chore for Her.
She has annexed my happy chair and glares balefully at me if I disturb Her naps. (Did you know that cats sleep 60% of the day.) She has no taste in dancing or singing (She doesn’t approve of mine) and has a raised-eyebrow stare without having eyebrows, worthy of a mother. Even Shannon apologises to Her. She refuses to cuddle and be stroked… or be held, but if we are gardening outside, or in the kitchen together having fun, She’ll attend the gathering (in a supervisory capacity, of course).
Andrew is a dog-only pet owner. He and the Cat hiss at each other in passing and now that we have moved my happy chair into his den while we wait for his new couch to arrive, Sophie is highly put out that She can’t sit in it anymore, because he keeps the door firmly closed against Her. And I am childishly thinking, “At last! Humans: 1; Tiger: 0.’
Caitlin and Shannon are threatening to move out next year, and my price is: the Cat goes too.
I don’t need Her negativity in my life.