“What did you say?”
“Wasn’t talking to you, was talking to the cat.”
A daily conversation in my house.
I don’t think Holly gets the whole “lying in a sunbeam” thing.
Overall, not a badly spent Saturday.
Don’t ever let it be said that I won’t share… and when my cat sticks her face down into my glass of bubbly carbonated fruit juice, I’m like, eh, whatever, have at it. But to then have the audacity to SNEEZE in my drink!?
Oh sure, the bubbles got up your nose, so you say, but I’m sorry, that’s simply taking it one step too far. Back in the day, I used to lick the Oreos so my brother wouldn’t eat them… I know what you’re doing here, my feline friend.
As I sit humoring myself with the laser pointer thingy, the ne’er-do-well thinks I’m hilarious. Or she’s completely done with the shenanigans and is finally going to give in to her long-suppressed demonic urges and suck my blood. Knowing her, it could go either way. It really all depends on how her day went.
So, my cat Shaylee eats crickets. I know. Yuck. The thing is, she won’t eat the legs. Again. I know. Double-yuck. My unfortunate part in all of this bloody chaos is to clean up the mess left behind by my
fur-covered psychopath lovely pet. It is not a job that I relish, in any way, shape, or form. If I find a cricket, I will gently catch it, and put it outside — after a stern lecture on its ill-advised decision to enter my patrolled abode … with the hopes it will scurry off, never to return to these murder-filled halls. But all too often, Shaylee is more observant, and certainly faster, than I could ever be. Which leads to cricket legs being scattered about the house for me to find. Let me be clear. Just. The. Legs.
I hate my life.