:smack:
Somebody knocked Dixie’s dish off the top of her box, breaking it. That’s when I said it.
Almost immediately, it occurred to me that what a dog’s idea of “nice things” is surely vastly different than me.
They would probably like a nice pile of horse-shit, maybe a dead rabbit to roll in. A big nest of pinky-mice to dig up and eat.
Broken dish. Like they care. :rolleyes: But they did seem to be a little ashamed. I’m pretty sure it was Trixie what done it.
That’s one thing we don’t have to worry about with Noir Kitty. I suspect that when he was a very young street cat, he was unable to get enough nutrition to develop his back leg muscles properly. The muscles run mainly in a ridge along the front of the legs, leaving a kind of flabby depression over the rest of the haunch. From above, he has a definite waist, too. There is another depression between his midsection and his hips that is quite noticeable, especially now that he has a bit of a pot belly.
Our vet isn’t concerned about this. Noir gets along just fine, though I’ve noticed his back feet splay outward a bit when he runs. But he doesn’t jump onto counters or furniture, (the exception being the couch but he hasn’t done that in about a year) and he can’t stand on his back legs unsupported. When I swish one of his toys around, he’ll try to stand up to get it but can only get his front feet a few inches above the floor.
He is a happy cat and gets more loving every day. So, other than the odd throw-up mess, he’s just about perfect.
One of the ways my cat tries to get my attention to play laser pointer is to tear up the magazine on the top of the stack on the table next to me. I now keep a sacrificial magazine on top for her to tear up so I can keep the good ones safe.
I have said this to my creature collection for years. They have no fucks to give. It’s true though. Everything I own is covered in fur, scratched and/or chewed.
…and barfed upon.
The Siamese wouldn’t even pretend to eat from a soiled or cracked dish. They say it to me, in loud howls. I know it’s something similar to ‘we can’t have nice things with those gross dogs living here’.
Don’t tell them, I am the boss around this house. ( yeah, right).
Gato, get metal bowls, maybe.
Trixie was framed. Innocent until proven guilty.
Yeah, it could have been a “False Flag” operation. Dixie has been known to jump up on her box to finish the food she didn’t eat earlier (all dishes are moved to the top of the box after breakfast).
I just have a hard time accepting the fact that I’ve fallen so far, I’m trying to argue and reason with 4 Dachshunds.
Yeah, well we are all in the hole with you. Slave to the pets.
I remarkably found a copy of the Alternative Newspaper today, and took it out (and even remembered my glasses!) in the Jeep to read while the dogs did their dog thing. First time in over a year I’ve tried to get some “Me time” on “Dog time”.
Nope.
Normally, they take off and run and hunt and dig. Not tonight, not this notchy. The girls made a point to jump in and poke their little snouts into the paper, about every minute or so, making any reading totally impossible.
How? Why? Am I not good to them? Why do they torture me so?
I swear, these animals are smarter and more intuitive than anybody I’ve ever worked for. Hence, my unemployment. 
Sounds like the reader who wrote in to James Thurber’s “Pet Department” about the hell her three Scotties were raising.
They would assemble and destroy various household items, after which she would gather them together amongst the wreckage and say accusingly, “Baaaad Scotties!!!”
Didn’t work too well.
No animals allowed inside my house, thank you.
It’s hard enough teaching human children to take care of things, let alone animals.
