Who knew I could be so easily trained?
Certainly none of those party to my previous relationships.
And yet I have been trained. And by none other than one of the cats.
“Mao. Mao Wao. Mao Wao.”
I am up and out of my chair, sprung, as it were, by forces including a bottom positively made for bouncing in and out of chairs and the desire that my carpet not be stained.
I grab the first piece of mail I find – a rather insulting circular from AARP congratulating me on my advancing years and suggesting that I may soon be receiving significant discounts on everything from eyewear to car insurance – and propel myself, skidding around corners, into the other room.
Dolly Gee Squeakers, formerly of the Humane Society Squeakers, a beautifully simple-minded puss with no more desire in life than for a bottomless food bowl and a couple of flies sandwiched between the screen and the storm window for entertainment, is hunched over, making the sounds that I know so well.
“Mao Wao. Mao Wao.”
I slide the paper under her just in time, wrinkling my nose with disgust.
“You are the pukingest cat I ever met.”
She looks up at me, remarkably pretty for someone who has just yakked up her dinner, and plods over to her bowl.
Disappointingly, it is empty.
She winds in and out of my ankles, a move that is meant to endear herself to me and yet is one I suspect is just her way of toppling me, perchance to go through my pockets.
She gazes up, blinks adorably. “Mao? Mao-mao?”
I sigh, give up.
“Just a couple kibble,” I mutter. And reaching for the cat food, I dump 11, maybe 12 pieces of dry cat food into her bowl.
I’m easily trained.