Sigh. I don't know guys. The next time I feel myself patting us on the back for getting two kittens at once I'm going to deke left and break my own arm. Yoga meets self defense.
Chuck tells me, after reading my last dispatch from deep within the shit of Feline Nation, that I'm not the only one whose bathroom breaks are your own private interactive theater. While I'm sitting on the can hoping you don't go Freddy Krueger on my naked thighs, Chuck's version of the problem is the version of a person who urinates from a standing position. Two kittens standing up against the toilet with their little paws gripping the seat, trying to poke their little furry and thrilled faces into the toilet bowl to watch the splash party. (Which of course results with Chuck trying to nudge you out of the way with his foot, something akin to figure skating if I understand his re-enactment).
I wish this was all I had to say about toilets, but it's not. Hal, I found you playing in the downstairs toilet last night. You were standing on the toilet seat splashing with a single paw. I could practically hear the "YeeHaws!" When I closed the lid, you licked the porcelain. Let me say that again, Hal: You licked the porcelain. You know we feed you water, right? It's next to your food dish and monitored by a woman who knows the importance of urinary health like some people know Spanish. When I hustled you out of the bathroom, you ran upstairs and played in that toilet. Obviously you are super into fecal delicacies and you know the hot spots.
Orin, you can now jump from the kitchen floor up to the kitchen counter. Bravo, Hollis Conway, U.S. Olympic high jumper. Hal, you tried to walk across the hot stove. I hope it was as much of a spiritual awakening and reconnection with your manhood for you as it was for, I don't know, does Robert Bly do that? Seems like maybe he would. Orin, after a brief hiatus, you've returned to cuddling. "It's another new phase for Orin," we say. Or should we call you Sybil? And by cuddling I mean walking across my chest when I'm reading and sticking your cat butt in my face, then turning around and trying to build a fort with my chunks of my hair. Meanwhile, Hal still hates to be touched. Unless it is a furious rub fest on your prone tummy. Chuck has taught you to lie on your back like a leisure specialist.
Plenty of my updates about your tyrannical behavior come from Chuck via text message:
"Well, Hal just fell down the stairs ... He was playing with a cough drop wrapper. He rolled all the way down the stairs freaking out about it and never stopped playing with it."
"Found another thing cats are supposed to hate: Citrus. I found an orange in the fridge and peeled it. Hal despises it. Orin doesn't give a shit."
Then, of course Orin and Hal, I came home to find that Chuck has scattered oranges and peels all over the counter. In a lesser home, it would look like the beginning of an episode of hoarders.
Typically Orin manages all of the grooming for both of you. It's like you think: "Huh. Well, as long as I'm sucking on the place where Hal's teat would be, I might as well swab his ears and lick his legs." I caught you, Hal, in a very tender moment finally reciprocating all over the outside of Orin's ears. Not quiet inside the ears, but it's the thought that counts.