Bitter Kitty

I have heard people say that cats can be rather dim; that they exist solely to be petted and loved. These people do not know cats. At all.

Friends, if you listen to only one thing I say, let it be this singular truth: Fickle is the mind of the feline.

I mean, like, really, really fickle.

We have this cat, Anna. She is furry, and loving. And old. She is 15 1/2 years old, which sets all sorts of records for longevity of cat-life at our house. So we're in new territory here with her.

We have her on the Senior Plus sort of food, which is supposed to have all the goodies that older cats need to have all types of healthiness heaped upon them. And it's not cheap. Nope. This stuff is pricey. But hey, what are you gonna do, right?

So we put it out for her, every single day.

And she turns her nose up at it. Every single day.

She wants canned food.
She yowls when she doesn't get canned food.

I admit I've indulged her, figuring there is certain amount of entitlement that should be rewarded to a cat who has seen our household flip flop from Pet-Centric to Kid-Centric; from the evening brushing sessions on the couch, to continual attacks and tail-tugging by little ones; from the playful pursuit of a younger kitten chasing her, to the all out stampede of 4 feet in a full-on run in her direction. In this golden season of her life, if she wants canned food, she shall have canned food. Job well done, Kiddo.

Every morning I put a can out for her and she happily dives in.
Every morning, except today.

Today was one of those days where I had 4 million individual things to do, and less than 5 minutes to complete each one. Our day began early and was scheduled to be full. I had to hurry; I needed more time. Something had to be skipped for sanity's sake. I can only do so much.

So I skipped putting out the can of food. She yowled her disappointment at me when she didn't see me set it out. I looked at her and said, "Go eat your dry food. Can food later." And then I rushed out the door, but just as I was leaving I could almost swear to you that I saw her squint at me. Narrow her eyes in a look that clearly conveyed calculations were being made. Plots were being created. Retribution being mapped out.

But I had to leave. No time to worry about it. I'll deal with it late, I mentally declared.

Later is now, my friends.

After a full day of being gone, I returned home ready to get back into the school lessons we had prepared to work on. Everything was all laid out: pencil boxes, books, work pages. Everything was at the ready for our return, so we could just jump right into what needed done.

Perhaps you have a thought of where this tale is going; perchance the mention of an angry cat and set up table put you in the frame of mind of what took place. And you'd be half right.

I say "half" because despite the fact that the entire table was set and ready for school, the only damage done to anything was done solely on MY half. Mine alone.

Anna had jumped up and shredded this week's pages of my Lesson Plan Book. Ripped it up. Anywhere not chewed had tooth-stab wounds through it. She completely ripped out Monday's Language Arts sections, in fact. And Friday's History lesson will be, well, a mystery, for me until I go back and check the book again because she annihilated that box as well. To further her vengeance and drive her message home, she found my sheet of award stickers, which I give out for a Job Well Done, and somehow managed to get the sheet crumpled up into a ball riddled with tooth punctures.

Her message was clear: Job NOT Well Done for me.

Nope. Not well at all.

She didn't touch anything on the girls' side. Dan had papers out and she didn't touch those. Just my stuff. Me. Bullseye.

Touche, ma chat. Touche.

I've heard it said by others that cats are not thoughtful creatures.

Clearly, those who think that have never had a cat.