I know you’re getting up there in age, and that’s why I cut you a lot of slack. You’re over 13 years old, and that’s worthy of a senior citizen discount card as far as felines are concerned. You’re surprisingly still in tiptop health, however. Except for every other day when you wretchedly regurgitate last night’s dinner or hack up a hairball the size of a potato. Then there are the early mornings when I venture in, still sleepy-eyed and stumbling, to step in puddles of your urinary incontinence.
But other than that, you’re just swell.
You are exceptionally patient with the children, though, I must admit. You accept their well-meaning rough-play with barely a flinch. When the boy stands you up tall on your hind legs to dance, you allow it with nary a strike. When he locks you in a room, you wait patiently to be rescued. You will even tolerate their hand in your food dish, manhandling your kibble, so long as you get extra treats in return. Even though you’re just going to throw it all up tomorrow.
After all of this time, however, I would think you would have learned. With age comes wisdom, after all. When you see the little rugrats bolting in your direction clearly on a mission, you really should run. Instead, you are drawn towards the defilement, intrigued by what it has to offer. Like a glutton for punishment. So it’s not that I don’t hear your pleas for help as you’re forcibly tucked and swaddled like a baby in the bedsheets, but I would hope it’s teaching you a clearly much needed lesson.
I might also consider it payback for peeing in my chair.
The Hand that Feeds You