The cat from whom we lease our house (one bowl of kibble and two bowls of awful-smelling wet food a day rent) has had a good winter, largely because of the Olympics. When the Olympics were being televised, Mrs. Doud, the cat and I would perch on the couch, like three pairs of socks snuggled in a drawer, and watch to our hearts’ content.
The cat enjoys lying on one or both of us. When Mrs. Doud goes down for her afternoon nap, the cat is right there with her — or perhaps I should say on her. When I happen to walk in on them snoozing away like that, the cat will look up and glare at me, as if to say, "Get the heck out of here. Can’t you see we’re busy?"
If I flop on the couch, it isn’t long before the cat flops on me, claws dug into my clothes to keep her from tumbling off. I hate that. In the first place, it hurts when she digs in, and in the second place she digs threads from my shirts and pants. I bawl her out for that behavior, but she doesn’t react, except perhaps to dig in a little farther. Perhaps she is getting hard of hearing.
Another habit I can’t cure her of is biting my hand when I give her a little rub. She doesn’t mind being petted, but when I decide to give her a rub, she lets me know she wants no more of that by nipping me on the hand. Talk about ingratitude. That’s the hand I feed her with.
We had hoped she would start losing a little weight by now, but that hasn’t happened. We tried making her stay outside so she’d get more exercise, but if she is outside when it’s dinner time or TV time, she yowls and beats on the door until the neighbors are ready to call the cops. Perhaps we’re the ones who should call the cops — to swear out a complaint against her.