Don’t let this face fool you.
This cat is an asshole. She derives some sort of feline pleasure from occasionally tormenting our dog Petra … she will threaten her by not allowing her to pass by or walk through a door or she will latch on to the back of Petra’s neck or nip her ears. It’s not something I condone or allow, but I don’t always catch it before it happens. When it does happen … everyone, but everyone, knows. Because Petra screams at the top of her little Chihuahua lungs just as if someone were trying to murder her. Now you might say, of course she does! I would too! But the thing is, Shaylee doesn’t always actually make contact, and when she does, it’s not as horrific as it sounds. Shaylee’s intent is not to hurt so much as to amuse herself. Remember, I did say she was an asshole.
The key thing here to remember is, Shaylee doesn’t always make contact. Sometimes she just gives Petra the ol’ cat stink-eye. However, if she’s stalking Petra and Petra knows it, Petra will scream … figuring the best offense is a good defense, I guess. Scare ‘em off with crazy.
This sibling intimidation hasn’t happened in a while and I can only assume that rather than the fulfillment of my hope for a peaceful, harmonious familial unit, it was instead simply because Shaylee was a little rattled after the move to the condo we now call home. (I will digress here a moment just to mention that unlike the noise dampening construction you might expect in privately owned condos, ours is more like your standard apartment building … we’re all well aware of what everyone else is doing at any point in time.)
At any rate, round about midnight last night, I’m pretty sure the neighbors think I killed my dog.
Welcome to the neighborhood.
Some days, like today, this look – this cuteness factor – is her only saving grace.
The sneeze heard round the world. One can’t be bothered to even look up from her nap. And the other takes it as a personal affront. Sheesh.
It’s Mother’s Day and my son’s birthday today. Since I’ve already told my mother how I feel about her (don’t roll your eyes, it was nice … thoughtful even) and revealing how old my son is makes me old, I’m just going to talk about my cat. I mean, look at this cat. Normally Shaylee is the Queen of Refinement, the epitome of poise and grace. And here she is, right when the realization struck that she had rolled herself just an inch too close to the edge of the bed necessitating a very unladylike maneuver to keep her from meeting the floor a tad harder than she would’ve liked. Laughing at moments like these are just one more reason I’m going to meet a fiery end.
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.
“you call them crickets, I call them impromptu snacks”
The derpiest derp to ever live in Derpland. Now, I’m not saying she should currently be sitting on the golden throne of Derpland, but she is definitely in the line of succession.
The force of condescension is strong with this one. Shaylee just has no time for stupid dogs and their stupid dog games.