Feline capers good for a laugh

My cats know the exact moment that the dogs leave my house for their trip home.
Up the stairs from the basement they barrel like steaming locomotives to form a synchronized three-abreast perch on the porch windowsill, where they watch attentively as their canine nemeses jump into the cab of my boyfriend’s truck.
After the truck leaves the driveway, the cats pile three-high—with eyes as big as saucers—in front of the kitchen door and clamour to get in before one of the dogs shows up again.
It’s hilarious.
Once inside, they scatter like the break shot after the eight ball and disperse in all directions. One heads straight for the dog dish to finish off any remaining morsels of food as if I’ve starved it for a week.
Another makes a beeline for the living room, where it drops to the floor and writhes there purring and stretching its legs and full of glee at the disappearance of the canine rulers.
The third cat—the trouble-maker—first checks all the rooms to make sure the coast really is clear and then, like clockwork, pounces on the other two spurring feline follies that ricochet off walls and furniture and burn pent-up energy after two days of skulking in the basement.
As for me, I do a reconnaissance walk through the house to see if the little dog with a big ego had left me a pee present on the floor beside my bed.
In a moment of gesturing to protect myself as two cats practised airborne moves from the “Matrix” movie, I stepped in something warm and gooey that oozed between my bare toes.
I took up an impressively difficult yoga pose and balanced precariously on my clean foot as three messy possibilities were considered: dog poop, dog vomit, or cat throw up.
I hoped for the latter—until I remembered that I’d recently fed my cat worm pills and wondered if what I had just stepped in were the un-dead writhing beasts expelled onto the bedroom floor.
I was afraid to move so I just stood there on one foot making improper use of the English language.
“They” say curiosity killed the cat. But I was pretty sure that if I looked at the unknown by-product seeping between my toes, my curiosity would kill the day-long craving I had for a creamy chocolate bar.
I made a plan to glance quickly, then hop to the bathroom and have a shower hot enough to cook a bird and the tapeworms I was convinced were sucking on my big toe.
I looked down to see the ripe and blackened banana squishing up between my toes that I’d peeled two mornings prior while sitting in my reading chair. I’d forgotten it there and the cats had found it—toppling the fermented fruit to the floor beside my bed.
I was so happy I almost reached down and scooped up some banana goo on my finger to eat.
Thank goodness for second thoughts.

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