Every morning at dawn, and every evening at dusk, our elderly cat starts howling for her moist food, in which we bury her thyroid pills. Seriously, yammering non-stop, even though she has a bowl of dry food available to her at all times. The more you try to ignore her, the more strident she gets. Crabby old lady.
Thus this text exchange.
Joe: I’m at the grocery store, do we need anything?
Me: I don’t know. I’m locked in the office. I can’t leave to check the kitchen because of That Cat.
Joe: That Cat of Yours, you mean.
Me: YES I DO.
Me: I had to turn the music up. I can hear her yowling through the door. Don’t come home; save yourself.
Joe: I’ve been home for 15 minutes.
Me: Oh Lord she’s GOT YOU!
Blasting a Celtic Dreams mix CD drowns out both dying-cat sounds and husband-coming-home sounds. A loud fiddle and a bodhrán would probably mask the sounds of a mass murderer breaking in the apartment. That Cat would probably let him in, just in case he has a can opener with him.
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February 13, 2013 at 5:06 pm
Joe
I meant that cat of Yours – meaning your cat, Angela, not mine!
February 13, 2013 at 5:43 pm
angelawd
I KNOW what you meant. But I’m rejecting your reality and replacing it with my own.