Most of you know that I have two cats. Josephine is not smart enough to have worries.
Her top three thoughts are:
- I love my endless supply of cat kibble!
- Tummy rub!
- Ooh, mousie!
Arthur is…too smart for his own good. He’s all angsty and emo – look at him there, contemplating all that’s wrong with the world!
His top three thoughts are:
- Kibble is the opiate of the masses.
- Tummy rubs, like life, are fleeting and meaningless.
- That’s not a real mouse.
I just know he’s got a stash of bad poetry around here somewhere. And so he acts out, desperate to keep his oppressors (i.e., me, the one who supplies him with food and a warm, comfy place to live and won’t let him dye his fur black or wear eyeliner [I ask him if he would jump off a bridge if all the other cats were doing it, but he just rolls his eyes at me]) at bay by doing unspeakable things on my bed. While I’m in my bed!
So, I went to Petsmart and loaded up on enough soothing cat pheromones to stop a tiger! Cross your fingers that Arthur is feeling soothed and content and happy. If the pheromones don’t work, it’s on to Kitty Prozac.
