While he has always sort of bothered Henry, Fidgy-head has decided that it is now unacceptable for Henry to A) eat food, B) enter the litter box and C) have a comfy nap on the bed. Or the couch. Or the floor. Or on this planet. Poor little Henry, being the smallest of all the cats at a measly 7 lbs., is immediately chased from the food bowl if Fidget happens to be prowling the vicinity (which is pretty much all the time). I have actually watched him *sit* on Henry, while tiny Henry-Muffins flails helplessly, growling his displeasure of having Fidget's fat ass pound him into the carpet. Fidget weighs 6 lbs. more than Henry; Henry doesn't have a prayer. Poor Henry can't even take a crap in peace. He surveys the area nervously, and quickly tries to sneak into the covered litter box undetected. If he fails in his stealth operation, he will be driven from the litter box and forced to crap another time. After Fidget has his fill of hunting miniature panther for sport, he will lay down in a position exactly equidistant from the food bowl and the litter box in order to keep an eye on his domain. He seems to think that he is some furry descendent of Alexander the Great and that he has conquered the Achaemenid Empire, a land plentiful with food and clumping poo sand.
In addition to his cruel and unusual punishment of his brother (not letting your sibling take a dump...really?), he has decided to overthrow the city of Countertop. His first military tactic: destroy the casserole left on the stove. I had made dinner for Chris and placed a towel over it to keep it warm for him. 5 minutes before Chris came home, I was forced to send a text to him that read, "Nevermind, dinner doesn't exist anymore. Cat destroyed it." It looked as though Fidget had taken both front paws and forcefully pounded them into my casserole, such as a child might play in a rain puddle. Fidget knows damn well that he's not supposed to be on the counters in the kitchen, but he simply doesn't care. If I spy him stalking a food item, I generally say, "Fidget! Get down, you wretched little beast!" He responds by pinning his ears and flattening himself against the laminate. The next step is usually some sort of threat, such as, "I'm serious, young man! Don't make me come get you!" Fidget's response: a well-executed stink eye tossed over his shoulder. The next excalation: "Fine, you little monkey!" As I start to stand up to toss his fat fuzzy rear onto the floor, he takes off at a pace no cat that large should be able to achieve. I am left standing in the middle of the room, ousted from my comfortable position on the sofa with no cat to flog.
I have begun stalking Fidget in order to fix this pattern of delinquency. If I catch him going after another cat in order to protect his kibble bounty, I will pin him to the floor and chastise him. He then squishes his ears against his head and begins to blink melodramatically, as if I've just backhanded him and he's waiting for the room to stop spinning. I have also started lobbing things from across the room to discourage his counter-surfing habits. This seems to be ineffective...mostly because my aim is on the level of any 3 year old girl. My next plan: Saran-wrap on the countertops. If that doesn't work, I will up the ante to tin foil. If that doesn't work...he will have earned himself some hot sauce on his most frequent landing surfaces. I hope he doesn't push me to the Tapatio point, but I wouldn't put it past him. It's hard to believe that I am fighting a legitimate battle with my cat, but I suppose he's no ordinary cat.
No comments:
Post a Comment