You kept me awake for most of the night with your shenanigans. I am now tired and cranky, and barely able to do my job. Please read the following guidelines and take them into consideration if you do not wish to be brutally killed:
I know you just love to flush the toilet. Yes, it is a fancy, little trick, and visitors find it both funny and charming. For me however, the novelty has worn off. Do not flush repeatedly for an hour until 12:30 a.m.
When you are kicked out of of the bathroom for your porcelain crimes, please do not sing your tale of woe until 1 a.m. Opera is not your forté and you will not be readmitted to the ceramic playground.
Though I take you jogging up and down the hall to help with your weight loss/fitness program, we do not do laps in the wee hours of the morning. Please remember this and do not pound on the apartment door after 2 a.m.
Your pounding is remarkably loud, like a human’s knock. I thought my GF was the one knocking. At 2:45 a.m., I thought “surely it must be an emergency,” so I opened the door… This did not give you licence to gleefully tear off down the hallway at top speed. I was not wearing pants. The neighbours do not need to wake up to the sight of a half-naked woman (whose neglected legs really do need shaving) streaking down the hall in pursuit of a galloping creature (one that is often mistaken for a raccoon).
To recap: At night, there is to be no flushing, no singing, no dancing, no door-knocking, no racing. Is that understood?
P.S. I know it’s just thrilling when I get up in the morning. But in your excitement you ate your breakfast way too fast. Didja, really have to puke unchewed food on the white wool rug? sigh
Okay, here’s the stinker. These were taken about 9 years ago when he was a kitten and very small. Now he’s big and fat.
It’s cute the first 50 times he does it. Annoying when he has a 20 minute Flushfest. He’s allowed to do it for guests because he loves to perform for an audience. (Interesting to note, he particularly loves to show off for women.) Otherwise, it drives me crazy.
I’ve spent most of the day squirting two of my cats with the water bottle.
They keep trying to climb the Christmas tree. The FAKE Christmas tree. They get under the tree and try to climb the fake trunk.
I’ve also got a real tree. They’re scared to death of it. Stupid cats.
I thought it was bad that my kitty cries to be let out at 4am every morning. (We have an outside door in our bedroom!–I think it is for fire codes.) If he ever learns to flush the toilet, I will never sleep again. Why didn’t anyone ever tell me that cats are nocturnal??
If Buffy tries to steal my computer chair one more time… sigh
And little Piper has figured out how to get up on the dining room table-by pulling herself up via the table cloth. The one my great-Aunt Sophie made.
Buffy is one of the smartest cats I have ever come across. And once she figures out how to do something, she has to keep on doing it. For instance-climbing the Christmas tree last year.
Her big thing last time was climbing my sister’s and my doors when they are closed. They’re wood, leuvered sliding doors. Once my sister was getting ready for school, and looked up at the top of the door when she heard a noise. Buffy’s head was peaking over top of the partially opened door!!!
I keep threatening to spank her, but she knows I’ll never do it.
Eats_Crayons, my cat is so stupid that I have to keep her bowl full of food at all times. If I allow it to become empty and she gets even the tiniest bit hungry, she immediately overeats and then barfs on my white wool dining room rug. I actively encourage her to please barf on the linoleum or hardwood floors which prevail throughout my entire house, but she apparently prefers to hunker down on light colored comfy surfaces for her alien projectile vomiting goodness. :rolleyes:
You don’t even want to hear about the string eating incident that cost me over $1000. Wretched beast.
My old cat, Snowball (may he be digging happily in the Great Poo-Box in the Sky) was also a smart cat. A very good boy who couldn’t stand a mess, he’d bolt for his litter box if he thought he was going to puke. He rarely made it, and for some reason when he did manage to get there in time, he’d yack on the floor beside the box rather than in it. Nevertheless, in an otherwise fully carpeted place, his efforts were appreciated.
BTW, one term when I was away at school, I came home to find my parents had taught the ever-so-smart Fatcat some stupid pet tricks. Example: He would also stand on his hind legs and do a pirouette on command. So undignified, but he was proud of himself.