I'm used to a certain lifestyle.
I expect my mothers to keep feeding the birds so I can snag one every once in a while, bring it into the house, and unleash an unholy hell for them to walk into later. (The expressions on their faces kills me every time!)
I expect to be able to drink out of the sink to my heart's content.
I expect to be able to jump into the bathtub after my mothers have showered so I can leave dirty Pickle paw prints all over the white porcelain.
I expect to come and go as I please. (My mothers know I don't want to go out in the snow, but I'll never give them the satisfaction of being right, so I go out there anyway just to prove a point. It's none of their business why I was only out there for two minutes. I'll never answer their ridiculous "well that didn't last long, what happened" questions.)
And I expect the baby gates to be in their strategic places so I can shake that mangy, menacing mutt, Parker. He's always up my ass. It's exhausting.
This morning I thought the whole family was getting out of bed. So I walked upstairs, waited by the sliding glass door for my mother to let me out, rolled around in the driveway a few times, and then got to thinking. Only one of my mothers came upstairs. So I took a shit under the deck - hopefully in a place one of them will step in when they decide it's time to bring up more firewood - and waited at the sliding glass door to be let back in. All the waiting I do around here is downright frustrating.
I was delighted to find my favorite mother was still in bed. I walked down the steps to the bedroom, feeling pretty good about the developing situation.
What's this shit? The door's closed!?
Why can't the idiots in this house understand that closed doors are my nemesis? Now, regardless if I wanted to go in a room or not, I have to because the door is closed and what if there's something really interesting in there, like a packing peanut, or a pebble from a pair of shoes on the floor next to the packing peanut!?
I waited. Twitched my tail.
I waited some more. Twitched my tail a few more times. Sighed. Put a paw under the door.
The door wasn't opening. Time to take a more drastic approach.
I started scratching on the door.
Nothing.
If some motherfucker didn't open that door, they didn't even want to know what they'd walk into tomorrow after work!
I intensified the scratching; added a few meows to let my mother know how serious this was.
Finally! The door opened. I was thinking to myself, 'It's about fucking time. I swear I'm getting sick of all this -' and then, as I'm tra-la-la-ing into the bedroom,
SMACK!
What the fuck was that!?
I was disoriented. I couldn't move. I stood there like a chump.
It took me more time than I care to admit to figure out one of the baby gates was overlapping the door frame by an inch. An inch!? And I ran my head, full speed, right into its wooden frame.
My mother wanted to laugh. I could hear it in the way her breathing changed. I would not give her the satisfaction of laughing at me, so I sucked it up and made my way over to the bed.
I waited for my mother to get back into bed and then curled into the nook her legs and stomach created for me. Her hand landed on my head. Ouch! It's a little tender there, lady! But she kept rubbing my head and my ears and, goddamnit, I couldn't keep the purring from happening.
Everyone's up now. In order to remind everyone who's in charge around here, I'm going to run in and out all day. Oh, it's coffee time? Time for me to go outside. Oh, your breakfast is ready? Time to let me in. Oh, you're settling in to read? Time for me to go outside. Oh, you're thinking about writing? Time to let me in. I can do this all day long.
That's what bitches get when they want to laugh at me.
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