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Missy meats her match
I alluded in a previous post to Missy’s “old tricks.” Here’s an instance from a few months ago.
I was eating dinner on the couch while watching TV (yes, I eat on the couch) with B and Missy. Missy was in her customary spot, on the bolster between us. (Convenient for petting on demand.) I got up for some reason or other and left the room.
During most of her life, Missy was uninterested in almost all people food. We’d even allowed her to get up on the dinner table while we were eating, since she caused no problems while she was there. (I’ll write about why she started getting away with that in the first place some other time.) In the past few years, however, that had changed, probably around the time we put her on a diet. In fact, she’d started trying to get at my plate whenever I ate on the couch. After some gentle correction on my part, though, she mostly behaved.
But I’d learned that if I left the room – or even moved a few feet away from my seat – that Missy was most definitely not to be trusted. If B was there, I’d remind him to keep on eye on things; otherwise, I’d pick up the plate and carry it with me.
I don’t know why I didn’t think to ask B to keep Missy in check this time.
B: Oh, Dear?
Me: Just a minute; I’ll be right there.
B: Dear, you really need to come and see this.
Missy had, true to form, helped herself. She’d pulled the thick slice of tri-tip off the plate when B was looking the other way. She was standing on the seat of the couch, her paws on her prize, just staring at it. It was a third of the length of her tail.
I couldn’t help but imagine her dragging away her kill, pulling it between her legs, like a leopard on the savannah. But she was just standing on it – as if to keep it from escaping – and looking confused.
“Well, I caught it…now what?”
I had to remove the cat and what was left of my dinner, as B was no help at all. He was laughing too hard.
I was eating dinner on the couch while watching TV (yes, I eat on the couch) with B and Missy. Missy was in her customary spot, on the bolster between us. (Convenient for petting on demand.) I got up for some reason or other and left the room.
During most of her life, Missy was uninterested in almost all people food. We’d even allowed her to get up on the dinner table while we were eating, since she caused no problems while she was there. (I’ll write about why she started getting away with that in the first place some other time.) In the past few years, however, that had changed, probably around the time we put her on a diet. In fact, she’d started trying to get at my plate whenever I ate on the couch. After some gentle correction on my part, though, she mostly behaved.
But I’d learned that if I left the room – or even moved a few feet away from my seat – that Missy was most definitely not to be trusted. If B was there, I’d remind him to keep on eye on things; otherwise, I’d pick up the plate and carry it with me.
I don’t know why I didn’t think to ask B to keep Missy in check this time.
B: Oh, Dear?
Me: Just a minute; I’ll be right there.
B: Dear, you really need to come and see this.
Missy had, true to form, helped herself. She’d pulled the thick slice of tri-tip off the plate when B was looking the other way. She was standing on the seat of the couch, her paws on her prize, just staring at it. It was a third of the length of her tail.
I couldn’t help but imagine her dragging away her kill, pulling it between her legs, like a leopard on the savannah. But she was just standing on it – as if to keep it from escaping – and looking confused.
“Well, I caught it…now what?”
I had to remove the cat and what was left of my dinner, as B was no help at all. He was laughing too hard.