“Get a cat”, they said. “It will be good for the Casa”, they said. Well, whoever “they” are, they lied.
I have found out the a sassy adolescent kitty is merely the catalyst that speeds up the destructive chemical reaction that is two rowdy young dogs. There is evidently some law of physics of which I was previously unaware, where Bassa can somehow reduce Nama and Bilbo’s combined mental capacity by half while somehow doubling their destructive powers.
I was jolted awake at zero-dark-thirty this morning to find what little sleeping area I currently command being occupied by three warring armies. The attacks were so ferocious that it was obvious that the battle would be ongoing for some time, but noooo… About the time that I am fully awake with no hope returning to sleep remotely possible, a peace accord was enacted; two of the combatants involved in the fracas are now curled up beneath the covers, and the initial instigator is off creating more havoc in a litterbox somewhere.
And it doesn’t get any better during the day. Snack time at the Casa used to involve five pairs of guilt-inducing gazes compelling me to give up my grub, but now there are six. The situation is compounded by the latest addition to the clan possessing a quartet of razor sharp claws and the ability to use them like a competitive lumberjack. Unfortunately, Bassa views me as the tree and the slice of deli meat that was previously mine is now his.
And don’t even get me started on Bassa’s ability to derail sexy time with Mom. I’m not as young as I once was, and as a result, the train doesn’t leave the station with the same regularity as it once did. Such excursions are trips to be treasured, and there’s nothing like the unexpected arrival of a carnivore only a few millenia removed from his predatory ancestors to cause the locomotive to cease coming ’round the mountain; if you’re picking up on what’s coming down the tracks.
And poor little Marco. As the only inmate at the Casa smaller than Bassa, he takes the brunt of the cat’s attention. His favorite spot of sunshine is on his pillow just inside a living room window; unfortunately for him, Mom has placed Bassa’s pedestal there as well. Bas will awaken from a deep slumber, and with no provocation whatsoever, reach down and pop poor Marco on the noggin. It’s even worse in the bedroom, when Bassa sees the slightest movement of the covers and pounces indiscriminately; Marco’s indignant screams are muffled by the combined weight of the quilt and the bulk of a marauding feline.
But Bassa is Mom’s kitty, and as a result seems to have unlimited diplomatic immunity. He seems to get by with things that would be capital offenses if committed by one of the dogs, and even I must tread carefully to escape Mom’s wrath should she hear Bassa complaining about some perceived indignity.
But siriusly, he is turning into a pretty good cat. I have to admit that even I fold up like a cheap suitcase when he stretches forth his hands in a demand to be picked up, only to be put back down as soon as he realizes that he has won yet another battle of the wits.
Between five dogs and now a cat, I don’t stand a chance at retaining a shred of dignity around this place; life is hard, and it’s even harder if you’re a pushover.
We be of one blood, ye and I.
