Metaphors for Life

We have a couple of cats.  One of them in particular is very much “my” cat, at least in his opinion.  He gets bothered when I don’t come home from work in time. He shouts at me until I sit down so he can sit on my lap. He sits in the window looking for me and runs to the door. At times he’s borderline dog.

So, this cat, in his weird catty way, he clearly ‘loves’ me.

And yet in the evening, when we’re tired and sitting down to eat; to enjoy something pleasant and relaxing; just then, as you start to unwind, that’s the moment he invariably goes for a deliberate, serious and olfactorily challenging poo.  Not just before the meal. Not near the start, when an interruption would be OK. Not at the end, when you’re about to get up anyway.  No, smack in the middle, when there’s no way out that’s going to work. And by a quirk of circumstance and domestic geography, the litter tray is within easy aroma reach of anywhere one might be eating.

Lest you say “Ah, it’s just his rhythm” … no, no it isn’t.  Doesn’t matter what time he gets fed, or what time we sit down to eat. How long or short the gap in between.  It’s pure sabotage.

You might love them. They might love you. Doesn’t stop the crap, though, and they’ll still stink up your life …