Snarkattack

I feel a tiny bit guilty for my last (exclusive to Snarkattack) entry (but what I said stands: I don’t think I’ll ever be at peace in Melbourne…sadly) so this entry is going to be much more light-hearted, but moany nevertheless. That is what the blog is supposed to be about after all!

Many who have met me in person and conversed with me at length will have heard about my cat. His presence in my life is as significant if not more so than many humans I know. In the eight years him and I have been acquainted, it would be safe to say that we know each other well. I might venture as far as to say that he is the best friend I’ve ever had, and easily the most wonderful cat I’ve ever met (I know that cicconeyouth would understand this…RIP to dear Stormie).

But like all remarkable personalities, Puss has his oddities, his peccadilloes, his vices. Unfortunately, a lot of them seem to directly involve his humans. But just as he suffers us and our whims, so do we his. Admittedly, his seem more endearing - he is, after all, irresistibly cute.

The fur I’ve already addressed here. God, the fur. Is there anywhere it doesn’t get? I’ve been known to pull it out of cups of tea (yes, I still drunk the rest - still here too), off countless articles of clothing - I even find it strays to my undergarments. How does that happen?!

So…what bad habits could such an adorable creature like Puss have? Read on, and learn of the wiles employed by the domesticated feline…

1.your spot will now be…my spot!

Puss, you rapscallion, you bully. How can so tiny a creature bully, you ask? Much like the painted courtesan pouts her rouged lips at you or theatrically loosens a bodice ribbon to expose a tantalising, curvy swell…mmm… Hang on, the cat. We’re talking about the cat. So too does the domesticated feline distract its humans in the sweetest of ways.

The sunroom. Couch. I’m curled up either watching telly, resting, writing, reading or on my laptop. But ho! Puss is on the ground, looking up at where I am seated. His eyes dart quickly to and fro, evaluating: which is the prime sitting spot here…? Is it…here? Or…on that cushion? No, wait - I quite like the look of Mistress’ spot. That spot should be mine. Heh heh heh. The cheeky sparkle flashes briefly in his eyes as he makes his choice.

Now Mistress - that being me - can see what Puss is plotting, oh yes. I seem absorbed in what activity I’m engaged in, but am snatching quick glances every now and then, in ever so covert a fashion. He will not outsmart me this time. He will not!

Elegantly, Puss jumps up onto the couch, next to me. He’s sitting, staring at me, waiting for an invitation.
“Ye-es, Puss?” I say to him, mock saccharine. He looks at me, the arm of the couch, and the gap between which would accommodate two thirds of him. Without warning, he plonks himself onto said spot, moving his posterior as if to say “Move over, you!” I’m flabbergasted and can do nothing but gape at him. “Yes…? A problem?” His eyes question me mockingly. He rearranges himself till sufficiently comfortable, then closes his eyes, and purrs.

Puss one, Mistress nil.