That’s still the problem

Published June 24, 2015 by Lynda Christine Rodriguez

I’m mad at my cat. Samantha is a calico who is more meatloaf than cat.  She is about 12 years old.  I have no idea how old she is because, like everything else in my life, there is a long insane story about how she came to live with me.  She was spoiled before she got to me and I have done nothing to change her sense of entitlement. She was declawed, badly, so she sometimes minces around and I feel bad for her pain and lack of grace so I give her extra skritches.  Last year she got out of the house and had an altercation with some wild animal and had to have surgery. Twelve hundred dollars worth of surgery.  Yet I have deemed her worthy because she misses me when I’m gone and gives me kitty kisses and purrs charmingly and looks at me adoringly.

She also stands on my face in the morning when I want to sleep in and licks the wall behind me if I don’t get up when she wants me to feed her.

This is all par for the kitty course.

I am mad at her because she was about to relieve herself in the plants. Usually I can scream,”Samantha! Get out the plants!” and she will race off and ignore me for the rest of the day.  Yesterday she did not run off. She merely put her two front feet in the plants for balance, cast me a look of feline disdain and then proceeded to pee on the floor. Then she raced away.

I was not happy and let her know of my displeasure by ignoring her plaintive wails as she looked pointedly at her food dish. (She had food!)  Late last night, she crawled into bed with me and rested her head charmingly on my shoulder and purred.

I get it her logic; it’s a new day, I’m not mad at her yet.

I was trying to start out on a new paw (foot) and as I was struggling to find the right philips screwdriver. (Really, why don’t they tell you on the outside of the package that you will need a smaller than average screwdriver to get to the battery compartment which you also didn’t know you had to deal with, all to provide temporary lighting for the back bathroom because the whole back of the house needs to be rewired and you don’t happen to have a year’s salary just hanging around to deal with that, and if you did, you would maybe take a year to write. ) I found her favorite, mouse shaped laser pointer.  She usually loves this thing. I flashed the infuriating red dot on the floor in her line of vision.

She gave  me a look that clearly said, “Bitch Please.”

I took this as a sign to just flail around in the dim for another day.

Which also means I didn’t get much studying and only got as far in my purgatorial proof as heckling the things in the 500’s section of my branch library.

I also looked up extinction in the catalog. I was kind of zinging around on a chocolate covered espresso bean high.  Which did not kill the dinosaurs, or the plants.

And we’re back.

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