He's an feline, and I'm a female, and we get along as well as two different species can, I suppose. Toby certainly has a fondness for things that do not appeal to me (i.e. raw mice, licking himself and high places.), and I do my best to live and let live. I know there are occupations in which I indulge that perplex him utterly....reading, typing, waking up at a particular time. There are many things for which we share a sympathetic attitude, such as looking out the window and naps. However, there are some activities in which Toby indulges that absolutely baffle me; not simply because I don't like them, but because I cannot fathom why HE likes them. If anyone can get in a kitty-like frame of mind and explain the wonder of the following, I would love to hear it.
He whines and picks and claws at the back door to be let out, and when presented with an open door, looks at me as if to say "Out? Outside? Why, I never heard of such a thing! What is this "out" you speak of?? Should I explore that concept? How does one go about that? Maybe I could actually GO out....what do you think?" And then he goes out. Maybe.
If he does go outside, particularly in the morning, he must immediately come right back inside, in case he's missed anything.
When I am getting ready to go into the shower, Toby must take his rightful place on the closed toilet lid as the "Great and Powerful Supervisor of the Bathroom" and reign supreme for the duration of the shower. He surveys the 10-foot square space carefully for any hijinks or untoward behavior. Just as I pass him as I get in the shower, he must take a full-claw swipe at the tender white meat of my bum.
Toby gets a tablespoon of tuna every morning, and he has absolutley no faith in my ability to remember this. It's not like I let it slide for a day or two, or even forget for a couple of hours; I get right on it after I exit the shower, even before I do my hair, for God's sake. And yet, Toby feels the need to meow and squawk and yowl in increasingly desperate tones as he winds around my feet and trips me up and places himself squarely in my way. Would it serve his purpose if I toppled over and hit my head on the stove and got a concussion and died? No. It would not. He would not get the tuna. And yet, we go through this every stinking morning.
Its a big bed. There's plenty of room for two fully grown people, and therefore no shortage of space for one 9-pound cat. He does not have to plonk himself down smack in the middle of the bed and get all snippy when one of the bed's owners wants to get in and then stretch himself out as long as he can go and look reproachfully at said owner when he encounters a limb.
I'm betting my bedside table does not look like Martha Stewart's. Her bedside table is likely not an auction find her mother bought when she was 6, been repainted 37 times. And it probably hasn't been burdened with a manicure set, hand cream, a small pair of scissors, lip balm, bobby pins a table lamp and at least 3 books. And I'll further bet that her cat does not decide at 4 a.m. that this would be the perfect spot to sit down, hoik up a leg and lick one's bum. Her cat would probably surmise, as mine does not, that this surface is woefully inadequate to the task, judging by the number of things that go crashing down to the ground and making a mighty big noise.
When I am running, (which almost never happens, by the way) I rarely feel the need to stretch out one leg behind me in the middle of my stride. But Toby does.
I adore my family, but I am able to find opportune moments in which to show my affection. The cat seems to feel that any time I am sitting on the computer or reading a newspaper is the best possible time to show me how he feels. Typing seems to send him into an absolute frenzy of purring, drooling, head-butting kitty-lovin'. Nothing but walking back and forth in front of the monitor and obstructing my fingers will convince me of his love. He is compelled to convince me of his devotion particularly when I am reading a newspaper, as if I might forget how adorable he is in my pursuit of current events. When I am sitting and watching tv and doing nothing with my hands or my brain, there seems to be no need to demand my attention.
News flash, Tobes: you are not the only cat in the world. When you see another cat in the vicinity, there is no need to hiss and spit and turn yourself inside out in a frenzy of cat-hate. A) The other cat can't hear you and B) you look ridiculous.
Why, when you take a drink of water do you have to catch the bowl with your paw and spill half of it out and make a big mess? Why? (We actually keep his water bowl in the bathtub for this reason. I'm not making this up.) And then, when you have finished slaking your thirst, do you hover above the bowl making loud, slurpy noises as if in a water-induced kitty trance?
If he can tell me why any of this behaviour is pleasurable, I promise I will let him in on the reading thing.
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