I’m not sure what is responsible for the horrific behavior of our three cats lately (well, more horrific than usual), but today Gary suggested we pack ’em up to the Humane Society. He was kidding, of course…weren’t you, Gary? Ummm, Gary?
This morning Tweetie decided that something in his world was out of kilter, and the way to resolve that was, naturally, to piss on a rug.
When I came home for lunch, all of Gary’s clothes and coats were stacked on the floor in the bedroom. When I asked about it, Gary told me that Rosie had attempted to leap to the top shelf of the closet, missed, and somehow yanked the closet rod out on his way down, tearing out of the room, wild-eyed, in the midst of his destruction.
Not one to be left out, Sylvester made a mad dash through the house, bashed into the baby gate we occasionally use to keep Tweetie confined to the kitchen (the result of extensive past bad behavior and another story altogether), and snapped a piece of the gate in half so it is useless now. Maybe Tweetie put him up to that one.
When I left to head back to work, all three cats were sprawled lazily in sunbeams, lounging like their bodies contain no bones, looking deceptively and uneasily innocent and harmless. If the house is on fire when I get home, I already know who to blame.