A couple of days ago, Cat Daddy and I spent the afternoon in separate rooms watching different television programmes; I didn’t want to watch whatever dull sports thing he was watching and he didn’t want to watch gruesome documentaries about serial killers.
Naturellement Louis Catorze chose to sit in the kitchen with his papa but, after a short while, he came into the living room, where I was, to creepy-stare at me for food. It wasn’t long before I felt so uncomfortable that I succumbed to his sinister mind control, like a brainwashed cult devotee.
Me, to Cat Daddy, as I opened the Orijen tin: “I can’t believe you’re sitting in the same room as the food, yet he came to creepy-stare at ME. Why didn’t he creepy-stare at you?”
Him: “He did.”
Me: “What? And you didn’t feed him?”
Him: “No. I just ignored him. That’s why he went to you.”
Me: “For goodness’ sake. It would have been so much less effort for you to do it. I’ve just had to get up and move rooms.”
Him: “Well, that’s your own fault. You give into him too easily.”
I have friends who get up at 5am to feed their cats because they can’t stand the physical bullying and intimidation, and I used to think they were pathetic. Yet here I am, being given the runaround just because this tiny, toothy little despot LOOKS at me in a certain way. He doesn’t make a sound. Mainly because he doesn’t need to.
What a look, though. I challenge anyone to remain in the same room with this (see below, with bonus tongue on this particular occasion) and not be desperate to make it stop: