Athena T. Cat had been rather more sociable than usual the other day. As in, under foot, in lap, bumping my leg with her head in case I’d forgotten that she was there, harassing me for pets, flopping for tummy rubs . . . And then she stalked off to do cat things.
I went to the gym (ow)*, came back, took a shower, opened the curtain and Hi Cat!
“Mrow.” Right where I needed to be, as well as sitting on one end of the towel. And then fussing at me when I dripped on her as I reached for said towel and gently removed her from it.
And then she chastised me for getting the mat damp. Now, before you say, “Well, silly, just shut the door(s) until you are done and then let her in,” a critical bit of cat furniture is in the bathroom, just out of the photo frame. Yup, the litter box. I try very hard not to lock the cat away from the toidy. Especially if she has been having digestive trouble (as she did on Friday).
And she doesn’t like the flavor of the new skin lotion I’ve been using (the less expensive kind, of course). And she wants to be petted right this minute now, but not with wet or greasy hands.
No, I can’t do anything right.
*There’s a new pull-up machine. It is obviously broken and miscalibrated, because two years ago I could pull up 100 pounds. According to this unit, I can only pull up 50 pounds. Two years and a shoulder injury mean absolutely nothing. The machine is wrong. Period.