My Fiendish Feline

It has recently become clear to me ​that my cat, by any and all means imaginable, has become determined to ​conduct himself in the most ​bizarre manner possible in my presence, thus imposing either madness or laughter upon his human experiment.

Me.

So far amusement has (for the most part) been the only product of his trial runs, although as we progress, I’m beginning to wonder if he might be getting closer and closer to driving me out of the house.

I once heard that cats actually believe, in their strange little feline psyches, that it is we who need them, not the other way around. They allow you to touch them because they feel they are doing you are favor, and that when you feed them you (the measly simple-minded human) are simply doing your due diligence in giving back to them, your master.

Your Cat Master.  Muahahaha

At this moment, I  imagine you might be peering over suspiciously at your once oh-so-sweet kitten as she licks her paw, and you’re beginning to notice things you’ve somehow never noticed before. A daring little glimmer in her eye, a claw held out a bit too long, a raised eyebrow. Oh, oh,  did she just roll her eyes at me?

Yes, yes she did.

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Now, while I have no real proof or knowledge on this, as canines not felines are my area of aptitude, I have my reasons to believe this is quite within the realm of possibility. You see, my cat is acting in a manner which strongly suggests he believes himself to be the man of house and I, his darling little housemaid.

This was not, as I recall, our agreement when I brought his scrawny little arse inside and nursed him back to health when he was so small he fit inside my hand . No, I believe at that time I was in charge.

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Or was I? I think I’ve been flimflammed.

And do you know why?  Well, to begin, he’s redecorating my home.

Every morning before I get up, he begins by selecting make-up brushes from inside a container on the bathroom sink with his teeth.  It’s like he’s playing pick-up-sticks, carefully sliding them up and out without tipping over the container or touching the rest of them. I can hear him as I lie in bed trying to pretend I hear nothing.

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After making his collection on the counter, he somehow transports each of them to the floor and buries them under bathroom rug in a rather eerily straight line. At this point he laughs maliciously to no one in particular, comes bolting out of the bathroom like a madman, and lands directly on top of my head as I hide under the covers of my duvet.

“I know what you’ve done” I tell him as I remove him from my face.

He just purrs and smiles at me fiendishly.  I swear I’ve seen him wink

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It doesn’t matter how many times a day I return the brushes to their proper place, they constantly end up buried under my feet.

Every once in a while I’ll catch him in the act of carrying one to the floor.  He just sort of freezes  in his tracks with the thing hanging from his mouth like a dog with a bone and stares at me with big, wide eyes as if I might not see him. I just stare back at him, waiting to see how long it takes him to move.

The thing is, he never does. I end up poking him to make sure he’s still breathing, at which point he says ‘gotcha’ in cat speak and runs off with his tail held high.  Never heard your cat speak, you say?  Just listen. She will.

When it comes to the dogs, I’m afraid I face an entirely new set of problems.  If I, in the mind of a cat, am a mere human, the dogs are at a level even lower than that. They’re brutes at best, and while Loki accepts them for what they are, there is no denying he believes himself to be wholly above their species. He also believes he is their caretaker.

Yes thats right.  90lb Lola and 160lb Goober belong to a puny little 6 pound feline.

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He swipes at them when he feels they just need a good swipe, cleans them when he believes a bath is in order, and talks to them out-loud when he thinks they could use some company, or perhaps just a good talking to.   Most interestingly, in my opinion, is his obsession with burying their poo in the back porch the moment their little arses let it out. Sometimes before they’re finished letting it out.

Good Grief.

I am sorry had to mention that part,  just didn’t really feel you’d get the whole picture of things without it.

You see, normally I’d step outside to clean up after the dogs a few minutes after the fact to, you know, give them some privacy.  Loki apparently feels no need for such a thing, so now by the time I arrive there are just giant mounds of wood chips scattered about, hiding things I’d rather not find at a later time.  There is, of course, only one thing to do at this point, and that is to go treasure hunting.

Yeah.

I could go on and on about the other things he does to me- about me opening a cabinet he’s been hiding inside for hours only to have him come flying out like some holy terror to scare the bejeebies out of me, or how he’s purposefully trapped himself inside the giant dog food container and turned himself into a bowling ball bomb ready to explode overnight, or how he hides all his toys inside the couch cushions and under my bed sheets.

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I could, but I won’t.  As mischievous as he is, I love him to pieces for it and wouldn’t trade him for the world.  He fits right in, I suppose, and makes my life even more laughter-filled than it was before. How he found me, I’ll never know, but I suppose he knew I needed him after all.

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