The cat never forgets who rules the roost

Cat barf. It’s the one globule in this world that I wish I didn’t have to clean up.
In fact, I would trade cat barf detail for sifting the solids out of the litter box any day.
In my the neck of the woods, cat barf rates right up there on my nemesis scale with the eight-legged arachnid—mostly because I usually find cat barf with my slipper or spilled over the edge of a cat bed and onto the nice new throw pillow I just purchased.
And said cat of barf just looks at me from her chair of monarchy with a slit-eyed sneer that smacks of “thousands of years ago, cats were worshipped as gods. Cats have never forgotten this. Please clean that up.”
Pam Brown once penned, “Cats can work out mathematically the exact place to sit that will cause the most inconvenience.”
I know this statement is true because never in the heaving stage before a barf does “Millie” jump off her cat bed and scamper into the bathroom to the “Ralphing” throne and barf. Nope.
Murphy’s Law says cats work out their innards right where they happen to be sitting.
The only time I know the cat has been at the bathroom throne is when I find kitty paw marks on the toilet seat after she’s drunk the toilet water. And inevitably I discover this after she’s been in my arms, making amends for the cat barf on the pillow and rubbing her wet whiskers against my cheek.
And then I have a momentary lapse of memory before snapping back to reality to find myself standing over the cat (which is now curled up and sleeping on my reading chair) with my mouth in a tight and evil grin, my eyes wide and bulging, and my arms held up in front of me with the fingers on both hands curled over like eagle talons.
I caught a reflection of myself in the mirror and, yes, I looked like a demented cartoon character having a nervous breakdown.
Just as I disengaged my fangs and retracted my claws, “Millie” woke up, sprawled onto her back in a “don’t you just love me” gesture, stretched out and poked the sharp nails of her back feet through the microfibre material on the chair three or four times, did a double twist, and then vaulted into the kitchen to the front door.
The still small voice of doubt about the pros and cons of feline ownership was getting louder when I opened the door to let her outside, but the mice strewn around the yard like a rodent civil war battle of 1812 paid the rent on my dissatisfaction.
Sure I complain. Yet when push comes to shove, my cat always wins because even though it has a rather independent soul, it carries the same unconditional love message of all pets and I never get tired of being reminded of that.
Now if I could just teach “Millie” to deter skunks and groundhogs like old “Dot” did, I’d have it made.
But something tells me a cat that drinks from the toilet is about as talented a feline as I’m going to get.

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