last night he sat a respectible distance from me for most of the night, but each time i stood up: to pee, check the crunch factor of my tator tots, get water, watch crimes unfold out my front window, he danced through my feet happily. giddy that we were going somewhere together and especially pleased when it meant a trip to the bathroom -- since it is home to the his grand and regal porceline water dish, the only throne the primadona deems worthy of his pursed little cat lips. when i sit on it, he puts his pudgy cat paws on my knees as if to say: no no no. thats not how you drink out of it...
at bedtime, i have to act quickly and not do anything to tip toonses off to my plans. my options are limited:
a) i can let him into my bedroom. despite the size of my bed and an abundance of pillows, he will want his entire body to rest on the same pillow i am using. i'm lucky if his creepy satanic eyes are just boring into the back of my head. it beats having his scratchy pubescent whiskers brushing my cheeks. if i push him to the floor, he'll do a lap around the foot of the bed, hop up on the other side and land in the exact same place. ... to say nothing of the way he takes his little paw and pets the back of my head like a creepy virginal internet boyfriend you meet up with at a truck stop.
b) if i lock him out of my bedroom, he will stand outside my door and alternatively paw at the knob and try to scratch his way under the barrier. when i moved from duluth, toonses meowed approximately 47 times per minute for the 3 1/2 hour trip, so i know that he has the lung capacity of angelina jolie. he can break this record on a saturday night, meowing outside my door in six hour increments.
he may be going insane, but i'm riding in the side car. the best i can do is leave the door open and arm myself with the 409 bottle. and even that is not enough.
last night i started with the door open until his smooth seduction scene proved overwhelming. then i locked him out. then i popped a benadryl, so i would hopefully get knocked out before he began cooing REO speedwagon's greatest hits. no. such. luck.
at 5:30 a.m., i woke to his incessant pawing and singing.
and i know that since i can hear my downstairs neighbors hacking up toe jam below me, i know that they can hear me screaming at toonses. and it probably makes things sound like he is my deadbeat husband and i am menopause.
i stared at my apartment door and considered, for five minutes, just letting him leave. taking his castorated, declawed, overweight self into the central hillside to see how long he survives. maybe then he'd appreciate the food i put on the table, the shelter i provide, the toilet i let him drink from. but he would probably just become a paint huffer and start asking me for money.
i never meant to be a cat owner, let alone a cat blogger.