I realize that I need to stop blogging about my pets. I will, really. After this.
Sparky, the Big Gray Asshole, is not the world’s nicest cat. He’s not the world’s meanest cat, but he isn’t exactly cuddly. And we like cuddly. We’re spoiled by Football and his 3am wake up calls for a quick snuggle. Sparky gives warning paws with claws extended to anyone who pets him for too long. Affection is not Sparky’s best quality. Sparky’s best quality is actually alerting the world of famine because the bottom of his food dish is visible.
At this point, Sparky kind of does his own thing. He hides out under beds and chairs. At out last house, he just hung out in the bathroom, since that’s where the food and the litter box lived. Not like he couldn’t get around, he just didn’t want to, so we set up a little bed in there. We’d say hello when we were in the bathroom, but given the inconsistency to his acceptance of it, (and his glowing eyes) our affection towards him is limited. Plus, he doesn’t come out that much. I found him lying on my bed the other day and I was so surprised that I snapped a startled “What the hell do you want?” at him.
Sparky steals sleeping spots and sitting spots, and then gets pissed when someone wants them back. He’s been dragging poor Football off my bed by the scruff of the neck for years, for the sole purpose of filching the warm spot. This infuriates me, mostly because Football is the last guy in the world to deserve it. And can you imagine being jolted out of sleep by someone dragging you off a bed by your neck?
He has yet to mess with Somewhere’s sleeping spot, because that’s her kennel. And her nasty pond scum-grass clipping-fall leaves-blanket is in there. So Sparky just steered clear of it, until yesterday.
I don’t know when he got in there, I just notice that he’s in there, sleeping. All stretched out, belly up, happy as can freaking be…
“What are you doing?” I ask him. He just stretches, doesn’t even look at me. Somewhere comes over, hockey checks my leg and starts to pace. She looks like Lassie trying to tell Timmy there’s another kid in the well. I tell her its fine. I figure they’ll work it out, he can’t live in there.
Sparky, the Big Gray Asshole, is not the world’s nicest cat. He’s not the world’s meanest cat, but he isn’t exactly cuddly. And we like cuddly. We’re spoiled by Football and his 3am wake up calls for a quick snuggle. Sparky gives warning paws with claws extended to anyone who pets him for too long. Affection is not Sparky’s best quality. Sparky’s best quality is actually alerting the world of famine because the bottom of his food dish is visible.
At this point, Sparky kind of does his own thing. He hides out under beds and chairs. At out last house, he just hung out in the bathroom, since that’s where the food and the litter box lived. Not like he couldn’t get around, he just didn’t want to, so we set up a little bed in there. We’d say hello when we were in the bathroom, but given the inconsistency to his acceptance of it, (and his glowing eyes) our affection towards him is limited. Plus, he doesn’t come out that much. I found him lying on my bed the other day and I was so surprised that I snapped a startled “What the hell do you want?” at him.
Sparky steals sleeping spots and sitting spots, and then gets pissed when someone wants them back. He’s been dragging poor Football off my bed by the scruff of the neck for years, for the sole purpose of filching the warm spot. This infuriates me, mostly because Football is the last guy in the world to deserve it. And can you imagine being jolted out of sleep by someone dragging you off a bed by your neck?
He has yet to mess with Somewhere’s sleeping spot, because that’s her kennel. And her nasty pond scum-grass clipping-fall leaves-blanket is in there. So Sparky just steered clear of it, until yesterday.
I don’t know when he got in there, I just notice that he’s in there, sleeping. All stretched out, belly up, happy as can freaking be…
“What are you doing?” I ask him. He just stretches, doesn’t even look at me. Somewhere comes over, hockey checks my leg and starts to pace. She looks like Lassie trying to tell Timmy there’s another kid in the well. I tell her its fine. I figure they’ll work it out, he can’t live in there.
He stays in that kennel for five hours. Yep, five. I drag him out of there, triggering a low growl from the Gray Assole, but I have to put the dog in the kennel, because she was on my bed and I want to go to sleep. This new arrangement isn’t working for me. And of course Sparky started it.
I was talking about this to my daughter Holly as we fed Sparky one day, saying that we sort of tolerate him because he’s our cat and part of the family. He isn’t the nicest cat, but it just is what it is.
“Huh,” she says, pondering this. “I wonder if that’s how he feels about us.”
We both turn to look at wide eyed Sparky, waiting at our feet to be fed, howling because his food dish is almost half empty.
“Sparky would sell us up the river for scrap metal, for sure. Still, he’s family.”
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